#missmaywemeetagain

[missmaywemeetagain]

Sister, my darlin’ Madi! 💗

So, I already told you that I will be in your inbox, right? I’m requesting a fic for Post Army!E. Uh oh…

What do you think you could do with this picture?

I was thinking maybe a little romance, a little smut action, a little exhibitionism kink (cause come on, we all know Elvis likes to watch his conquests), maybe a little bit of spanking. I don’t know, but it sounds a bit better in my head when I thought about it 😂 Feel free to do whatever you please with it. If you can’t stray away from angst, I welcome it.

-Daisy (@powerofelvis)

Ah, my darlin' darlin' baby! My first ever request and it seems entirely fitting that it's for you, my biggest cheerleader!! 💗 @powerofelvis

I hope I did your request justice--I maybe went in a little different direction (I couldn't manage the spanking for this one, sorry!) and I'm also apparently incapable of writing anything less than 4k, so here's your 5.7k monstrosity of smuttasticness! Love you, baby, and I hope you enjoy! 🥰

This is filthy, so Minors, DNI!! 18+

This is part of Madi's Get to Know Me Gala 💗. Requests/asks are still open for the time being!

So, here it is, my first Request: Snap

You pride yourself on being one of the top photographers in the field, especially when, just like so many other careers, it is dominated by men who think they know better and do better solely because of the dangling appendage between their legs. Luckily, your boss has a progressive outlook and sees your talent for what it is.

The thing is, you are able to get something different from your celebrity subjects and he knows it. The women feel more comfortable with you because they know you aren’t trying to get in their pants, and the men either soften or want to impress you to do just that. And you seem to have a naturally honed ability to figure out quickly what they want and need and are able to play to that to get the best shots.

It’s a win-win most of the time.

Luckily, you don’t tend to get starstruck easily, perhaps because you see behind the curtain of the business. Not to say you didn’t get some butterflies around Paul Newman or feel a sense of awe around Grace Kelly. But overall, the glitz and glamor doesn’t affect you much.

You are a little surprised, however, that your next assignment is the one and only Elvis Presley, fresh from his image-changing stint in the Army. And you sense that the change of image is going to be the challenge on this shoot because remaking a man who the public already has a solid image of through a measly photograph is easier said than done. You have little doubt, based on your research and what you’ve seen so far from his pretty army discharge pictures, that his rebellious streak is now over. But who he is now and who he wants to be going forward likely looks very different from the hip greaser image burned in your head from the 50s.

That and the fact that you’re traveling on a train with him as he heads off to his next big film in LA is throwing you a little for a loop. But you are nothing if not adaptable.

There are more than abundant rumors of Presley’s love for the ladies, which is how you think you find yourself the only photographer who is asked to join him on the train on his journey. The other male photographers had clamored their way past you, fighting for shots at the train station, both outside the train and in it, before it was set to leave. You hung back, taking a few pictures here and there, but mostly smirking to yourself at the desperation to get the man’s attention.

It surprises you a little how pleasant Presley is, how accommodating. He’s nothing but a polite Southern gentleman, giving everyone their piece of him graciously. And the interactions with the fans are nothing less than remarkable based on your experience with other celebrities, and you chronicle that with your camera. There is a presence about him, an essence, that you’ve never quite encountered before with the way he commands the space he is in, demanding attention without ever actually saying a word, without requiring it. But you are finding it a little difficult to get a true read on him with so many people around.

You sense there are many other sides to him, but it’s not until you are almost alone with him and the train starts moving that you are able to discern what they might be. When you are finally introduced properly and are up close to the man, you cannot deny that your heart flutters and you shiver a little at the open way his brilliant sapphire eyes take you in from head to toe.

“Well, hello there, honey,” he drawls, the words warm and dripping into your stomach as his hand clasps yours. “You must be our resident photographer.”

You hate the way his gaze and his touch disorient you. You’ve been around dozens of charming, handsome men, but this man is on another level altogether. He’s more than just a chiseled jaw and high cheekbones and stunning blue eyes. No, there is a magic about him that draws you in, throwing you off your game and threatening to melt you into an embarrassing puddle.

It’s more than a little infuriating.

You manage to snap out of it, clearing your throat and introducing yourself firmly, professionally, putting on your best celebrities-don’t-rattle-me affect. But the damage is done because you can see the glint of amusement in his eyes and the tiniest smirk play at those famous full lips.

You watch him relax with his friends, joking and messing about. Keeping a healthy distance, you get some shots that will likely never see the light of day but help you gauge the lighting and get a feel for him. When not around the onslaught of reporters, he seems filled with an almost adolescent penchant for horsing around, which seems interesting for a man of 25 fresh out of the Army who presents now as keen and intelligent enough despite the Southern accent that the snobs in LA and New York want to look down their noses at him for.

Suddenly, as if commanded silently, the others disperse into the different private cars reserved for him and his people, leaving the two of you alone. After a moment, those deep eyes of his find you, and he beckons you down the train car towards him in a come hither motion and the raise of an eyebrow.

That is when you realize what Elvis needs for you to get your shots. The man wants to play. A little tete è tete is in order, perhaps.

Easy enough, you think as you sit diagonally to him in the bank of seats across from him. You’ve played similar games before with other handsome men. Nothing tawdry, but a little flirtation never hurt anyone. Though with the way his eyes darken and his posture changes ever so slightly, for the first time ever, you think you might be a little out of your depth.

Regardless, you force yourself to maintain an air nonchalance. You hold up your camera. “May I?”

He nods, a smile playing at his lips. You’ve known some of the biggest stars to be uncomfortable under the gaze of a lens in their more private moments, but Presley seems to have no qualms whatsoever. And as you snap a few casual shots up close, it becomes crystal clear that the camera loves him. Every angle just works. He has no “bad side.” It’s almost exhilarating for someone like you who seeks to capture the truth in these moments to have the challenge of a man who was born to be in front of a camera as your subject.

Somehow, he’s both childlike and suave all at once. Innocent and sultry. Feminine and masculine. And he’s got the longest eyelashes you’ve ever seen on a man.

Elvis lets out a long whistle. “You sure are the prettiest photographer I’ve ever seen.”

Your eyebrow raises and you are thankful that your camera conceals the slight blush on your cheeks, despite knowing this is likely just a line to placate you.

“Is that so?” you respond evenly.

“Mhm. Sure is a nice change from the usual group of stuffy men up in my business, I’ll tell you for sure. Much rather have you up in my…” he trails off, then winks.

“I’m not sure you could handle a woman like me, Mr. Presley.” It’s a challenge and a risk, to be sure, taking this way to a man of such stature, but you put just a bit of playfulness in your voice to temper the slice.

He pauses, considering you in a different way, then mimics your own words back to you: “Is that so?”

Snap.

The photo you capture then is one you know has that edginess, that something else you are looking for.

There’s a sense of tension in his posture now, only recognizable to you because not a second so he was the picture of confident relaxation. But you’ve caught him out—that famous lip of his curling as he throws your words back at you, his almond eyes narrowing suspiciously but full of a feline sexual energy. While his right arm appears casual on the armrest, his long and slender pointer finger goes rigid, a suggestive gesture to be sure.

He’s playful about it but in such a way as a jungle cat seeks to play with its food before devouring it.

Heat courses through your limbs and pools low in your belly, a purely biological response to this amazing specimen of a man and the way he’s looking at you.

You manage to find your voice. “Quite so, I’m afraid,” you say with a flirty, faux sorrow.

“We’ll see,” he hums, then slides over the seat until right across from you. In a bold move you don’t see coming, Elvis nudges his toe under your skirt and in between your properly clasped knees, spreading your legs apart until his foot rests possessively through your thighs on the seat underneath you.

“You’re one cocky sonnuvabitch, aren’t ya?” you muse, finally bringing your camera down to look him in the eyes. You are hyper aware of the way his toe inches up, closer to the heat that now begins to pulse between your legs.

”Gonna have to wash your mouth out if ya keep talkin’ like that,” he purrs.

Snap.

“Oh, really?” You are loathe to admit just how badly you want to see him try.

“Yes, really.”

“Hmm, suppose you’d have to catch me first.” You are fully taunting him now, quickly hurtling into the realm of unprofessional but unable to stop yourself.

Snap.

But based off the smile on his face and the heat in his eyes, he is enjoying himself.

“Oh, that ain’t hard.”

“No?”

He chuckles and inches his foot up far enough that your thighs now encase it, sending a rolling shiver through you at the pressured sensation.

Snap.

Obviously, you know how a good round of flirtation and suggestion can open a subject up, so to speak, but you don’t mix business with pleasure. Right now, you are running headlong down a very dangerous road. You aren’t completely naive to the ways of men and sex, but you also aren’t overly experienced when it comes to the deed itself, due to propriety and self- preservation. Your experience has been limited to heavy petting and the basic mechanics of the act, but nothing you’d call very exciting or even overly enjoyable. The whole sex thing honestly seemed overrated, made more to please men than women.

But that was before Elvis Presley sat across from you and wedged his foot between your thighs.

The more you think about it, about him, the more you think you might burn right through your clothes as though it were the dead heat of summer and you’d been running for miles. You force yourself to breathe slowly, evenly, to keep control of your faculties and the situation, but he stares at you with those intense eyes and you already know it’s a losing battle.

“Show me how to work that camera, honey,” he says, surprising you with the change of tactics.

“What for?” Your camera is your livelihood, your baby, your artistic expression so this makes you nervous. Usually, you’d never, ever let a subject touch it. But these aren’t normal circumstances (and you also know that he has more than enough money to replace it if he screws something up).

“Oh, you’ll see,” he smirks, eyes dancing. He makes no indication that he’s going to move his foot from its precarious position in order for you to shift towards him, and when you raise your brows at him questioningly, he just smiles that wide, million dollar smile.

So you slowly, carefully, scoot your butt to the edge of the seat in order to lean far enough forward with the camera in hand. In doing so, however, the sole of his shoe is now flush against your core and you can’t help the little yelp that escapes your lips when he presses against you. It stokes something inside you that you’ve never felt to this extent before.

Oh, you are in trouble. You are in way, way over your head.

You manage a gulp and then clear your throat as you lean over to show him the workings of the camera. He meets you in the middle, and your eyes nearly roll back into your skull for the way it presses his toe into your now aching cunt.

Holy hell, the man smells intoxicating, and you are aware of just how close his face is to yours. It’s as if his eyelashes flutter in slow motion, his breath hot near your cheek, and a pressure builds inside of you, one you’ve only felt when your curious hand has made its way into your panties on a sleepless night or when you’ve pushed a pillow between your thighs, rocking into the friction. Certainly no man has ever made you really feel that way.

But that feeling barely touches the fire that courses through you now. In a slow daze, you show him the basic mechanics and he gently pulls the camera from your grasp. Suddenly, you feel vulnerable and bare without it, your shield of indifference taken away.

Elvis leans back, releasing some of the pressure on your core, and you can breathe again, if only for a moment, because the look in his eyes is nothing short of obscene in its sexiness.

“You develop your own film, darlin’?”

You are confused by the question, but all you can seem to do is nod in response, wondering where in the hell this is going.

“Good. Now, relax, honey, and pull that dress up for me,” he says, as though he’s asking something completely benign of you.

Your face must register your confusion, your surprise. To his credit, he moves his foot away, and his gaze and voice both soften, “I ain’t gonna hurt you, I promise, but you gotta tell me if this isn’t somethin’ you wanna do.”

To your credit, it doesn’t take you long to find your voice, as stammering as it might be. “I-I-I want to,” you say, and it comes out so breathless you’d roll your eyes at yourself in any other circumstance. In fact, you are rather shocked at your eagerness.

Elvis smiles broadly. “Well, okay then, honey. That dress,” he commands, nudging his chin up to remind you what it is he wants from you.

Your heart flutters so fast that you’re not sure it’s even fully beating anymore. You inch the fabric up, up, up your thighs, feeling the softness as it wrinkles under your palms, exposing your stockings to the man in front of you.

Much to your chagrin, you are utterly spellbound. A reasonable voice in the back of your head tells you to stop this nonsense immediately before you make a fool of yourself before you cross lines that cannot be uncrossed. Yet your body is so wound, so tuned into him, so needy for whatever it is he has in store for you that you can barely think.

Snap.

It takes a moment to register that its him taking pictures of you, not the other way around. An embarrassed heat rushes to your cheeks when you realize he’s aimed the camera squarely between your legs and not at your red face.

You pause when reaching the white lace tops of your stockings, the garter clips that hold them up now visible.

Snap.

It’s likely the way he bites his full lower lip behind the camera that gives you the courage to keep going, that little tell that perhaps he’s just as aroused as you, that this isn’t some cruel joke.

Finally, you pull the hem up over your hips, exposing your white panties fully to his scrutiny. Perhaps it’s the damp spot in the center of them that has him shifting his hips with a quiet, low groan. The sound sends a thrill rippling through your limbs.

Snap.

His voice comes out husky and about an octave lower this time. “Now reach into those panties and touch yourself for me, baby. D’you know how to get yourself goin’?”

“I think so, yes,” you reply breathlessly, altogether unsure if anything you’ve ever done to yourself is anything what this obviously experienced man expects.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll help guide ya if you need it,” he says with a kind of deference, patience.

You nod, then, biting your lip in concentration, you slip your hand down under the waistband of your underwear. The pads of your fingers are cool against the blazing heat of your sex as they trail down to that sensitive bundle of nerves you’ve only touched the surface of exploring. You circle the bud a few times, your hips rolling involuntarily in response.

Snap.

“Lower,” Elvis commands, and you obey, sliding down to find how swollen and soaking you already are. Something about the way he is watching you has a coil in your belly tightening in a way it never has before, has your body responding in ways it never has with another person.

“Are you wet, baby?” he breathes.

You nod.

“Show me.” It comes out sultry and eager and sets you on fire that he wants to see with his own eyes what he’s doing to you.

You pull your fingers out of the damp fabric and show him the slick shining there.

“Goddamn,” he whispers, snapping another photo. “Lemme taste you.” The blush revealed on his sky-high cheekbones when he pulls the camera away is enough to send your breath heaving, but it is nothing at all compared to what happens in your body the moment his lips close around your sticky fingertips.

An obscene moan rolls out from your mouth as his soft tongue licks your digits clean. The sound seems to urge him on, resulting in him sucking one, then the other, gently. Your hair stands on end, goosebumps running down your arms, your eyes fluttering closed. That coil inside your pelvis tightens so tight you feel like you might burst, but then he removes his mouth with a resounding pop.

You whimper at the loss and your eyes flutter back open to find his deep blues staring back at you with a passion that seems to rival your own.

“Sweet as honey,” he murmurs with a dreamy smile, picking up the camera once more. Something inside you is proud that he’s enjoyed tasting you, as if you were always meant for him to enjoy. “Now I wanna see that kitty.”

You didn’t know it was possible to be more flushed that you already are, but your cheeks rage with blood. You aren’t exactly sure how he wants that to happen and your brow furrows.

“Just pull those pretty panties to the side for me, baby,” Elvis encourages.

It feels like all the blood in your body rushes into your pussy the moment you slide the ruined cotton off to the side, leaving you bare for him. The cool air makes you shiver, or maybe it is the way he groans as he takes a picture of your most private of areas.

“T-touch yourself for me,” he says, his voice needy and strained now.

You run your fingers down then up through your lower lips, feeling the throbbing pulse of blood down there as you do so, feeling that tightness in your belly squirm for more. The obvious tent in his black slacks has you breathing even harder as you wonder what he would feel like buried inside of you.

But Elvis has other ideas.

“Aw, hell,” he moans before tossing your camera aside and falling to his knees in front of you like a desperate man praying for forgiveness. You barely have time to register your shock at the superstar prostrating himself at your feet before his large hands spread your thighs further apart, and his luscious lips kiss their way up your slit, landing on your aching clit.

“What are you—Oh my god!” you cry out before you can stop yourself, your hands flying into his dark mane of soft, perfectly styled hair. Never in your life had a man put his mouth there, it wasn’t even something you knew was done, and ohmifuckinggod it feels so good that your mind goes blank.

When Elvis moans into you, lathing his tongue flat against you and dragging it up your core, you think you stop breathing completely.

So far gone are you as his wicked tongue winds through and spears and soothes you, that you don’t realize that the mewling murmurs of, “Oh, Jesus. Holy mother of—Oh, Elvis!” are actually coming from your mouth. You feel him smile against you, pausing his ministrations long enough for you to catch your breath.

Which is good, because he immediately knocks it back out of you as he slides a long finger into your tight heat and latches himself to your clit like a man possessed. The deft way his finger pumps, then curves into some unknown spongy spot you didn’t know existed until this very moment has you writhing on the seat, clinging to his beautiful head for dear life. Somehow, the combination of the suckling and licking of your little nub coupled with the rapid work of his hand has your entire body tensing before he hurtles you over an invisible cliff, that tight coil in your belly snapping. Shuddering and gasping, you free fall, and a soothing warmth washes over you from head to toe.

You’ve never felt anything like it in your life.

Your chest heaves with exertion as you come back into yourself, whining at the emptiness when he removes his finger, then shivering as he replaces it with his tongue, lapping at the excess of slick arousal that now seems to coat everything below, including his face.

The aftershocks that he causes to ripple through you stoke the fire in your belly again, and you think that maybe, just maybe you had this sex thing all wrong. That the few men you’d fooled around with had absolutely no idea what they were doing. Because this…this was…so good you can’t even think of an intelligent way to describe it.

Elvis straightens and pulls up onto his knees, looking utterly pleased with himself, his pretty mouth shiny with you.  Slotting between your open legs, his eyes shine with arousal.

“Was that good, baby? Did you come?” he asks.

“I—was that…? Did I come? What does that—?” you stammer, barely able to string together a coherent sentence, confused by his words in your haze.

He chuckles at your floundering. “Have you never come before? Never had an orgasm, honey? That’s a damn shame,” he says, wiping his mouth with his thumb, then licking it.

You blush at your inexperience and at his gesture. “That was an orgasm? I mean, of course it was…I, well, I’ve been with men, I just—that never—Um, yes, th-that was amazing,” you babble, knowing that you must be bright red with embarrassment, but your body is so loose and warm that you almost don’t care.

He only smiles at your bashfulness and leans up into you, his mouth hovering so close to yours that you feel his warm breath on your lips and can smell yourself on them. “Well, best give you another one for good measure. Whaddya say, baby?” he whispers, your entire body tingles at attention.

All you can do is nod, almost frantically, wondering how in the world he could make that happen again and absolutely desperate for it at the same time.

It’s then that he finally kisses you and you are consumed all at once with how pillowy soft his lips are, how you can taste yourself on his lips and it feels like it should be wrong, but you sort of like it. He’s surprisingly gentle, his passion evident but controlled as he explores your mouth much in the same way he explored your pussy—soft at first, but insistent. You open to him easily, his tongue quickly finding yours and in one fell swoop, he maneuvers you onto your back on the seat, slotting his long legs between your thighs.

The gentle way his hands and lips caress your face, your neck, down to your breasts and waist has you distracted enough that you are surprised when he rolls his pelvis into yours and his excitement is particularly evident as it pokes into your belly.

It’s because of me, you think in disbelief, I’ve made Elvis Presley, of all men, aroused.

And that thought suddenly has you ravenous and bold. You reach between you two, taking his clothed but considerable length in your hand and squeezing.

Elvis groans above you, then smiles. “You eager little minx. Give you a little taste and now it’s all you can think about, huh?” he teases.

Your response is to smile back and work his length with your hand. You may not know much about the female orgasm before today, but you sure as hell are familiar with how his equipment works.

 “Okay, okay,” he gasps, his eyes rolling back, “Jesus, woman, I hear ya.”

He rids himself of his suit jacket while you make quick work of his belt and buttons and zippers. Unbeknownst to you, yet completely unsurprisingly, he is wearing no underwear, so with a quick push of his slacks off his hips, he’s totally bare for you.

He’s well-endowed enough for you to be a little nervous about it which he seems to pick up on. “Don’t you worry, baby, I’ll go slow,” he whispers kindly in your ear.

You nod and respond by wrapping your hand around him and pumping his shaft, swirling your thumb gently over his foreskin and over the head of him. The beaded pre-cum slicks over the tip, eliciting a low growl from the Adonis hovering above you.

Pulling up your skirt again, you bend your knees invitingly, letting him nestle between your legs. Elvis takes a moment to kiss you roughly, nipping at your lower lip, as he coats his erection in your slick, rubbing the length of it between your already sopping and swollen folds. The tip of him brushes against your clit maddeningly as he does so, causing you to arch and keen under him.

Finally, you can stand it no longer, reaching your hand down to line him up with your entrance. He smirks above you, but the look is wiped off his face and quickly replaced with something almost akin to awe as he pushes into you slowly. Your body yearns for him in such a way that, even though you are quite tight around him, you seem to suckle him in, inch by inch. The sensation has the both of you moaning, eyes rolling back and lips parting as you join together.

“Fuck, honey. So goddamned tight for me,” he groans, and a shudder of pleasure rolls through you.

It's utterly delicious the way he slots into you so perfectly, bottoming out as you swallow him whole. He gives you a moment to adjust and relax into the heaviness of him in your body, looking down at you with what you realize are quite soulful eyes. His arousal is obvious in the way his pupils are blown, but he still looks at you with an air of reverence even though this seems to be a spontaneous and casual fuck on a train.

When he starts thrusting in and out of you, slowly at first, and with somehow perfect precision, hitting spots inside you that you didn’t know existed, you realize you’ll never be able to have sex again without comparing it to the gorgeous man above you.

Lord, you wish you could take a picture of the way he looks right now, hair mussed and sweat beading on his forehead, his plump lips parted and panting. This is the perfectly imperfect Elvis you wished to capture when you got on this train. But in this moment, he is just for you to see. You don’t want to share him with the world.

He’s patient in his approach to keep his promise, yet he doesn’t need to wait long. Your body is humming with arousal, the warmth blossoming over you as his thrusts become more pointed and deeper. The way he rolls his pelvis, then swivels it, playing with motion and depth make you realize he’s gauging every reaction you have, adjusting to what brings you closer to falling apart.

You barely recognize the sounds coming out of your mouth, feeling every hard inch of him taking over you, wanting more, more, more. Your wet heat flutters around him and he speeds his thrusts, but it’s when he brings his hand between you and rubs his thumb against your hypersensitive bud that you truly begin to fall apart.

This time, it’s more gradual, the way the heat and pressure builds. You know more of what to expect, but holy hell, he’s playing you like an instrument, making your entire body quiver with desire and need. You almost want to escape the feeling—it’s so intense, so stimulating, as he pounds into you from above, but you also never want it to stop.

“C’mon, baby, that’s my good girl,” he praises in that low Southern drawl, and that takes you up, up, up the crest of your arousal.

You pant and whine, desperate now for a release you’ve never had a taste of until now.

“That’s it, come for me now, darlin’, come on me,” he moans, working your clit faster.

That sends you flying over the edge, hitting the crest of your orgasm so hard the wind is knocked out of you, and you see white stars in the blackness of your closed eyes. You clench around him, your legs wrapped around his waist, squeezing, as though he can keep you from flying away. Body shuddering with release, you feel a gush of warmth and he’s sliding so effortlessly through you, he could split you in two and you wouldn’t even know it.

“Oh, fuck, you’re so good for me…did so good baby,” he pants, watching you come down from your high.

Elvis slows down, easing you through it, though he looks like he wants to absolutely ravage you for the way he looks at you so hungrily. He’s holding back, you can tell.

“I’m gonna pull out, baby. I-I-I—can I come on your pretty lil’ face?” he gasps, eyes begging you.

You’d be more taken aback if he hadn’t just fucked you silly. Never in a thousand years would you think to let a man claim you in such a way, but you find that you want—no, need—it. You’d let him do almost anything with you at this point.

You nod, unable to speak with how fucked out you are. Elvis pulls out of your heat and you groan at the loss of him, but he’s pulling you down to the floor and you go, bonelessly, onto your knees. Towering above you, he stands, using the remnants of your glistening release to pump his cock expertly, and the sight sends shivers through you.  

“Oh, that’s it, honey. Open your mouth for me,” he pants out, tapping your chin with his finger.

You obey without question.

Elvis clasps his free hand at the back of your neck, cupping your jaw as he thrusts roughly into his other hand. “Aw, f-f-f-fuckin’ hell,” he moans loudly, and then he comes violently. Pulsing, hot streams squirt over your cheeks, your chin, and you taste the bitter tang of his salty release on your tongue.

You’ve never tasted a man before, and you’re glad the first is Elvis Presley.

He looks absolutely ethereal in his release. The way he grits his teeth and then his mouth hangs open, eyes fluttering shut and body shuddering as he paints you with him makes him even more attractive than you thought possible.

You wait, mouth still agape and covered in his seed. His bedroom eyes open and he looks down at you. “Jesus, you look so damn beautiful covered in me,” he says dreamily. “Stay just like that.”

Then, surprising you once again, he grabs your camera which had been discarded earlier, bringing it up to his face.

Snap.

He memorializes the moment.

“Swallow, baby,” he guides you, tapping your chin closed. You do, even though it makes you a little queasy because you’ve never done this before.

Snap.

“Open,” he says, pulling the camera from his face. Then, he uses his thumb and fingers to wipe your face of him, depositing the rest of his cum in your mouth. “Want ya to take it all for me,” he coos. You take it willingly, and then suckle the rest off his fingers.

“My pretty lil’ photographer,” he moans out, snapping one last shot as he pumps his fingers in your mouth. “S’good for me, you dirty girl.”

You can’t help but whine at that.

Elvis flops back down onto the seat, dark hair failing in his eyes, and pulls you into his lap. He kisses you, gently, then with more insistence as he seems to relish the taste of himself on your tongue.

“Mmm, I want copies of those photos,” he says seriously, pulling back and looking into your eyes.

You blush furiously. “Okay,” you whisper, nodding.

He lets his head fall back onto the seat and closes his eyes in refraction. After a moment, he speaks again, pulling you in close.

“And I want you to be with me in California, once we get there. Will you stay?” he asks quietly.

The way he asks so earnestly both stuns and delights you. You couldn’t say no even if you wanted to.

“I will,” you say.

Elvis smiles.

Grabbing your camera, you take one last shot of your beautiful, mind-blowing man.

Snap.

[epforeverohyes]

*faints*

[caitlin1996]

How many books do you read in a year is a debatable question

For real though big love to @missmaywemeetagain

[powerofelvis]

Thanks to our lovely @missmaywemeetagain! Thanks for bringing our love for this era to life because WHEW JESUS 🥹🥹🥹

[elvisislife]

Currently in shambles over the Pink Scarf update

[just-another-elvis-fan]

I JUST FINISHED READING PINK SCARF AND LET ME TELL YOU I . AM . SHOOK.

[babylovepresley]

just finished reading part 15 of pink scarf and i am literally numb I WANT THEM TO BE HAPPY TOGETHER I HOPE JACK GETS HIT BY A FUCKING BUS

[hooked-on-elvis]

HOW MUCH OF AN ELVIS FAN ARE YOU?

So, I was watching an interview with Bill Belew (Elvis' clothing designer) and he mentioned one time a lady took her panties off and throw it up towards the stage Elvis was performing in Vegas. This is no novelty for me, for all of us I believe, but it always gets me like: 🫨!!! That got me wondering what would you do to show your appreciation to Elvis Presley?

POLL TIME, FAM! Let's work only with harmless options. I want real answers from the fandom. Just out of fun. ♥

If Elvis was alive and you had the chance to impress him (at least hoped to), what kind of Elvis fan would you be?

THINK AS IF YOU'RE ABOUT TO DO THAT THING YOU'RE GONNA SELECT BELOW --- PLEASE, DON'T ANSWER IT UNREALISTICALLY, UNCHARACTERISTIC TO YOUR REAL PERSONALITY.

Tagging: @thetaoofzoe @jhoneybees @i-r-i-n-a-a @suspiciousmindsxo @deke-rivers-1957 @lookingforrainbows @vintagepresley @earthbaby-angelboy @karel-in-wonderland @arrolyn1114 @alienelvisobsession @xanatenshi @lilwulfpresley @eptodaytommorowforever @tupelomiss @ladelinee @elvispresleywife @heartbrake-hotel @whositmcwhatsit @eapep @hey-bossa-nova-baby @iuv0ana @bigdaddyelvislover @leapresley @mercsandmonsters @wanderingelvis @missmaywemeetagain @ahundredlifetime @lett-them-eatt-cake @atleastpleasetelephone @elvislittleone @elvisanddenise @elvisfanandbeatlesfan14 @elvisgirl71 @elvispresleyforever @elvisflowerchild @aliengoth3 @almightybigbrain @presleysweetheart @presleyenterprise

[from-memphis-with-love]

Okay, serious question for you all.

Picture it. It's 1969-1970. This summer is a scorcher.

Elvis is not married in this alternate universe. And you know he loves the ladies.

You are on a mission to sleep with him, come hell or high water. But he's one of the most famous, mysterious men in the world. So how do you do it?

Tell me in the comments below! What foolproof method would you use to ensure you got some good 'ole down home lovin'? Would you be a gate girl? A concert-goer? Try to weasel your way in through one of the members of the Memphis Mafia (probably not the best idea)? Taglist - @whositmcwhatsit  @ellie-24  @arrolyn1114 @missmaywemeetagain  @be-my-ally  @vintageshanny  @prompted-wordsmith @precious-little-scoundrel @peskybedtime @lookingforrainbows @austinbutlersgirl67@lala1267 @thatbanditqueen @dontcrydaddy @lovingdilfs @elvispresleygf @plasticfantasticl0ver @ab4eva @presleysweetheart @chasingwildflowers @elvispresleywife @uh-all-shook-up @xxquinnxx @edgeofrealitys-blog@velvetprvsley @woundmetender @avengen @richardslady121 @presleyhearted @kendralavon7 @18lkpeters@lookingforrainbows @elvisalltheway101 @sissylittlefeather @eliseinmemphis@tacozebra051 @thetaoofzoe @peskybedtime @shakerattlescroll @crash-and-cure @ccab @i-r-i-n-a-a @devilsflowerr@dirtyelvisfant4sy @elvislittleone @foreverdolly @getyourpresleyfix@gayforelvis @headfullofpresley @h0unds-of-h3ll @hipshakingkingcreole @p0lksaladannie @doll-elvis @tacozebra051 @richardslady121 @jaqueline19997 @myradiaz@livelaughelvis @deke-rivers-1957 @atleastpleasetelephone 

[vintageshanny]

Elvis Top Three - Horny/Sexy Songs

Thank you @xanatenshi for the idea for this next question! Of course with Elvis being the sexiest man to ever exist, sometimes (a lot of times) that appeal oozed out into his music, especially when he would make those…noises. You know what I mean. 😉 So what are everyone’s top three sexy/horny Elvis songs? 🥵

Shake, Rattle and Roll (full version) - The verse that was edited out (“the way you wear those dresses, the sun comes shinin’ through, I can’t believe my eyes, all that mess belongs to you”) reminds me of what Elvis supposedly said to Kay Wheeler when they met - “Is this all you?” Oh my god, I would just die if he looked at me and said something that sexy. 🥵 Even without that verse, the song is full of innuendo and I love it. “You make me roll my eyes and then you make me grit my teeth.” I’m picturing a very specific scenario with that line…

Steamroller Blues - Whew, hearing Elvis sing blues just does something to me, and again with the innuendo on this one! Please, Elvis, shoot me full of rhythm and blues or whatever else you want. 😉 Also I love how he pronounces cement like semen lol.

It Feels So Right - Basically the whole Elvis is Back album is off-the-charts sexy, but this one in particular drives me wild. His intense vocal delivery makes me feel some kind of way, and I wish I could’ve seen him belting this out in the studio. “Nothing could be wrong that feels so right.” Describes my love for this man. ❤️

Let’s hear your hottest takes on sexy Elvis songs! Anyone join in! 😘

@whositmcwhatsit @be-my-ally @thatbanditqueen @ellie-24 @vintagepresley @lookingforrainbows @prompted-wordsmith @flwrs4aust @iloveelvis @argeriant18 @loving-elvis @alienelvisobsession @ab4eva @manebioniclegali @deke-rivers-1957 @rjmartin11 @elvisalltheway101 @satninroses @devilsflowerr @missmaywemeetagain @troubleinapinksuit @cryingabtab @dreamingofep @animalloverthingsss @velvetelvis @everythingelvispresley @arrolyn1114 @claire-elvisgirl @vintage-leisure @blighted-star @queenncreole @basicpresleygirl @lllsaslll @elvissbabygirl @powerofelvis @ashtag6887 @sissylittlefeather @dkayfixates @peskybedtime @lettersfromvenus @burnthheparaphilia @thetaoofzoe @mercsandmonsters @wildhorseinkansas @presleysweetheart @all-hookedup-on-elvis @i-r-i-n-a-a

[missmaywemeetagain]

Read Paisley Dreams Part 1 🏵 NOW!

Hello, my wonderful darlin’s! (And Happy 1st Bday to Pink Scarf!💗) This week's story is a special request from a dear Sugar Mama regarding Elvis’ sexy yellow shirt from August 6th, 1970 and how it disappeared. It’s coincidence that I happened to be working on it on the anniversary of him wearing it, but I just take that as a good sign from the universe LOL.

This one definitely got away from me, and because of that, I’m splitting it into two parts—consequently, Part 1 is more tension building and not very smutty but I promise Part 2 will have more spice!

Enjoy babies, and let me know what you think!

xoxox, Madi 💗

TW: attempted sexual assault, cussing, ass kicking, protective!e, passing reference to his weight/ed/drug issues, masturbation

Paisley Dreams (Part 1) 🏵💛🔥

August 1970

Elvis has a love-hate relationship with going out on the town, especially when going to his fellow entertainer’s shows. He loves the novelty of it, being able to be out in the world like a (somewhat) normal human being, to be able to interact with people that aren’t necessarily there to see him. He likes that the focus is on someone else for a change, and he loves talking with people who aren’t part of his immediate circle.

What he hates, however, is pulling focus from the people performing. It’s the reason he shows up a little late and gets seated after the lights go down. Contrary to what some idiots may believe, he does not want it to be The Elvis Show all the time. And while he likes being around new people, he doesn’t always enjoy the hobnobbing that is seemingly required with other celebrities, if in attendance. No, he’d rather talk with people he cares about or regular, everyday folks instead of putting on airs for some Hollywood types.

There is also something to the fact that he’s not in 100% control of those situations when things are not revolving around him, and while a little of that is thrilling and breaks through the boredom that can happen in his insular life, it can also be disconcerting. It leaves him a little more jittery than usual, but the stubborn part of him refuses to let it overcome him tonight.

Somedays, he wishes he could be invisible and could mull about as he pleases in obscurity. Problem is, he’s way too used to the attention being him brings, and whether or not he’d admit it to anyone else, it would make him feel mightily insecure if no one at all knew who he was, if not one person came up to say hi or get an autograph. He had a little taste of that with Steve before the ’68 Special, when he’d been told in so many words to get over himself when no one stopped him on the street in front of the studio.

He hadn’t liked it, no siree, despite the freedom and lack of pressure it offered in the moment. No, he was much too used to being Elvis Presley. It is the conundrum of his life, of a fame unlike any other, that leaves him to continually pendulum from being trapped by it on one end and unable to live without it on the other.

Tonight, he fortifies himself for a night that won’t be entirely under his control and heads over to Nancy Sinatra’s show at Caesar’s Palace. Something about the unpredictability makes him feel a little more alive, like something exciting is just waiting for just the right moment to happen and bring him along with it. He much prefers thinking in those terms and not in terms of threats of harm.

Since Nancy is a good friend, he keeps himself rather understated for the evening. He knows he looks sharp in his high-collared, well-tailored chocolate suit, with a paisley yellow shirt underneath. His belt is simple (for him, at least). The outfit does not scream “look at me!” He wants the attention to be on Nancy and not him.

He also refused to bring the whole damn entourage tonight, feeling a little bit smothered by the sea of men he’s cultivated around him. He’d settled for Charlie, Richard, and Felton as his companions for the evening, despite Joe and Red’s protestations. All he wants is a little fun, a little music that isn’t his, and a little break from the pressure of rehearsals for his own engagement that starts in a few days—complete with a movie crew from MGM to film the damn thing.

He likes rising to the challenge of it, but hell, it makes him more nervous than usual. A lot is riding on his ability to deliver a fabulous show, and not only that, but they’ve been filming the rehearsals, too, so he feels like he’s under the microscope even when he normally isn’t. That coupled with learning three times as many songs as usual has his brain feeling fuzzy and him sleeping worse than usual. Nothing a pill (or three) can’t fix, though.

At least it’s all…stimulating. And Lord knows he’s a man that needs stimulation and variety, something that is harder and harder to come by with his life being the way it is.

But tonight isn’t about him. And everything seems to be going according to plan—there’s a little attention on him with fans and photos and such, enough to make him feel good, but most of the focus is elsewhere. It feels like he can breathe a little.

The show is great; he enjoys seeing Nance after, though his heart always does a little flip around her. She’s been a soft spot for him for a long time, and despite his multiple attempts to endear her a little more intimately to him, she’s always kept him mostly on the straight and narrow. He loves her even more for keeping him in check, though he still wouldn’t mind a tousle in the bedroom with her.

And it’s here he finds himself, ruminating pleasantly, if not a bit hopefully, on the past, when the lot of them sneak out through the back kitchens in order to avoid the crush of people out front waiting for a glimpse of him.

He certainly doesn’t expect to come upon some drunken asshole aggressively throwing a young woman up against the wall down the dark alley behind the Palace. His eyes narrow and a surge of adrenaline wafts through him as he tries to figure out what exactly is happening and why. Body standing to attention, he’s grateful his karate training comes in handy in times like these—which is precisely why he keeps up on the craft.

“Don’t think we should get involved, EP,” Richard warns, putting his hand out as if to stop him from moving towards the scuffle, but he bats it away like a fly.

“Come on, you little tart. I know you want it. You know you’re jus’ askin’ for it up there in those skimpy costumes, don’tcha?” the guy slurs at her, groping at her breasts.

Elvis hastens his stride down the alley, blood up, nerves tingling, and ready to kick this guy’s ass for assaulting this poor showgirl.

“Get the fuck off me, creep!” she screams back at the guy, slapping his hand away, and looking more angry than afraid, she stomps on the guy’s foot and knees him hard in the nuts.

Elvis can’t help but cringe, but the guy deserves it. Good on her.

“You bitch!” the asshole shrieks, clutching his groin. Unfortunately, in his pain, or maybe just because he’s that much of a dick, the man yanks down on her flimsy top, ripping it apart and right off her chest, exposing her braless breasts. Then, he lunges for her throat.

With a growl, Elvis takes his last few steps quickly, easily knocking the drunk bastard off his feet with a well-placed kick and sending him sprawling onto the dirty pavement. The guy lands with a groan, shaking his head. Elvis goes down on one knee and pulls him up by the shirt.

“Hey, fuck you, man! This ain’t none of your business—” the guy starts, flailing up at him drunkenly before his eyes go wide and he stops abruptly. “Holy shit, you’re—”

“I’m the guy who’s gonna kick your ass from here to Sunday if ya don’t apologize to this nice young lady and get your ass back to whatever sewer you crawled outta,” Elvis spits out, quick and cutting, his blue eyes flashing with something the man doesn’t want to test. He is self-aware enough to know that his presence is big enough to knock even sober men for a loop, and that’s when he’s not angry.

The guy opens and closes his mouth like a guppy, looking altogether wrecked and muddled by his predicament.

“Boss?” he hears Charlie’s cautioning voice from behind him, and Elvis puts up a hand to tell him he’s got this. There are some things he can do on his own.

“Well?” Elvis asks, turning his attention back to the jerk on the ground, dragging the guy up by his ugly polyester shirt.

“I-I-I—” he stutters, looking bleary eyed from Elvis to the young lady.

Elvis uses the toe of his boot and grinds down slowly on the man’s fingers.

The guy yelps, then sobs, then looks helplessly at Elvis, “Okay! Okay! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“Don’t tell me. Tell her,” Elvis emphasizes, still wanting to make this guy pay. He points up to the young lady, who is standing there frozen against the wall, her arms desperately trying to cover her bared chest.

The man’s eyes narrow, obviously feeling it’s beneath him to apologize to a girl.

“Okay,” Elvis sighs dramatically, easily raising himself from the ground without using his hands, “but don’t say I didn’t warn ya.” He brings his foot back as though he’s gonna kick the man in the gut, and it has the intended effect.

“Alright, alright!” the guy shouts, curling in on himself while holding out his hand to stop Elvis. He begrudgingly looks at the woman. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry!”

“For what exactly?” Elvis asks, raising an eyebrow. He is getting more of a kick out of playing with this drunkard than he should, but he can’t deny he enjoys the pulse of blood through his veins as he gets to be the hero.

“I-I-I’m sorry…for…for touching you a-and ripping your top! I’m sorry!” he cries defeatedly.

“Was that so hard?” Elvis muses. “Now get the hell outta here before I decide I’m bein’ too nice and let my boys have a crack atcha.”

The man gulps and nods, then his legs wheel a bit as he tries to get up too fast and clambers clumsily out of the alleyway.

Adrenaline waning, Elvis turns to the woman, immediately softening his features and his voice—a well-honed skill. “Are you okay, Miss?”

She looks at him like he’s grown two heads. “Yes. No. I’m not sure…I had that under control, you know,” she adds a little bitterly.

“Oh, didja now?” he replies, amused by her fiery response.

She does not look amused as she shrugs her shoulders defiantly, then remembers she’s got no top on. Her green eyes widen to saucers, and she grasps her breasts tighter, succeeding in pushing them together and creating ample cleavage that in any other circumstance would have him looking twice. But this is not the time, and he feels guilty for even glancing at her in this state.

“Shit. I’m an idiot,” he mumbles, realizing how uncomfortable she must be half naked in a dark alley full of men she doesn’t know. He scrambles to unbutton his already half-open yellow paisley shirt the rest of the way, then shrugs out of his jacket, pulling the shirt along with it.

Her mouth parts in what he assumes is disbelief as he becomes as bare as she is from the waist up. It’s vulnerable and disarming in a way he doesn’t initially intend—he more just wants to give her something she can truly cover up with and his jacket only has the one button. He’s not in the habit of running around with his shirt off these days, even though he’s slimmed down for his upcoming performances (because God knows the cameras will add ten pounds whether he likes it or not). Years of being shamed about his weight in one way or another by directors, the Colonel, and the gossip magazines always have him self-conscious, even when he’s slim, which is perhaps why he is so readily understanding of the girl’s current predicament. The August Vegas night is hot, and he feels a tinge cooler now when the air hits the sweat beaded over his skin.

“Here, honey, put this on,” he says and holds the shirt out to her.

Her mirth shifts to guarded thanks, but then she shakes her head and tightens her arms around herself. He realizes that she can’t take the shirt without exposing herself more.

“Oh. Turn around, sweetheart,” he coos at her. “I won’t hurt ya none.” He throws his jacket to Charlie, who is suddenly by his side, and holds his shirt open for her.

She turns cautiously, letting him help her as she slips her shaking arms into the oversized sleeves. “Thanks,” she whispers quietly, and he watches as she fumbles unsuccessfully with the buttons because her hands are trembling so badly.

“Lemme help, darlin’,” he says, reassuringly, “I promise I ain’t gonna look atcha.”

Seemingly frustrated at herself for needing his continued assistance, she relents and turns back to him, her doe eyes brimming with unshed tears.

He does everything in him to not look at her pretty, soft skin, or her legs that go on for days, focusing the best he can on the task of doing up the highest buttons in order to give her some modesty. Of course, his shirts being designed as they are, specifically for him and his open-chested style, there aren’t buttons as high up as there should be. The shirt is already too big on her, so she’s still showing quite a bit of skin, but is certainly better than it her previous nakedness. He looks up at her as if to say sorry, and she just looks away uncomfortably.

Elvis nods, then races to do up the rest of them, needing to kneel before her to get the lowest ones. The act feels very intimate, him half-undressed but dressing her in this prostrated position, and it sends a warmth spreading across his bare chest. He looks up at her, finding her watching him carefully for any impropriety. He is determined not to give her any, but when her intense, tearful green eyes meet his, he feels a bit off-kilter for the way it makes him feel. His heart drops into his stomach like he’s on a roller coaster.

Uh oh. He knows that feeling all too well, and it usually ends with him neck deep in infatuation at the very least and in love at the most.

“All set,” he says, looking down almost bashfully. Clearing his throat, he raises effortlessly up to standing, and Charlie hands him his jacket to put back on.

“Thank you, Mr. Presley,” she says quietly, the edge in her voice gone now that she’s swimming in his yellow shirt and the threat is gone. Her pretty pink lip bottom lip wavers.

Then she bursts into tears.

There is nothing that pulls at his heartstrings quite like a pretty young thing weeping. She’s proven herself anything but helpless but having been through such an ordeal would be frightening regardless.

“Aww, it’s okay, sweetheart, you’re safe now. Let’s get you home,” he says. He suddenly wants nothing more than to swoop her up into the protective cocoon that is his penthouse so no one can ever hurt her again, but he gets the distinct impression that bringing her into a private den full of older men is not the right move in this situation.

Sniffling, she swipes angrily under her stage makeup-smeared eyes as she attempts to get ahold of herself. He recognizes her need to not appear weak, to retain her dignity, so he gives her a minute to collect herself even though he wants to sweep her into his arms and tell her he can make everything alright.

It takes her a moment and he can tell she wants to tell him no, that she can get home on her own, thankyouverymuch, but after closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she finally nods in acceptance.

Something in his heart soars because he likes feeling needed, likes truly helping people, and enjoys the warmhearted feeling it gives him to put others before himself. It is also the least he can do after what she’s been through.

Though it certainly doesn’t hurt that she’s a looker with her long, caramel colored hair, intelligent jade eyes, and showgirl body. He knows he would’ve helped her regardless of all of that but, even so, at 35 he’s still a virile man who can see what is plain in front of his face. And there’s something about her resilience that attracts him beyond her looks. A flash in her eyes that tells him her soul is guarded and complex and beautiful all at once. There’s a hint of darkness he can relate to, one that, combined with all the rest, sends his overly romantic heart into overdrive.

As he, Charlie, Richard, and Felton lead her trembling but head-held-high form to the car, he can’t help but think God put him in the right place at the right time tonight.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asks gently once they are in the car.

“Pepper. My name is Pepper.”

*

This night is turning out to be incredibly strange, Pepper thinks as she shakily unlocks the door to her apartment. She hates that she can’t seem to stop shivering after the whole ordeal in the alley. No matter how many deep breaths she took in the car, she is still shaking like a leaf and she can’t decide if the fact that Elvis Presley is at her elbow is making it better or worse.

Finally jimmying the door open, she nearly falls inside, feeling all too unsteady in her high heels. Exhausted, it doesn’t help matters that she can’t remember if she ate today, between her waitressing shift at the diner and her showgirl gig at the Palace. She forces herself not to cry the stupid tears that pool stubbornly in her eyes. No, she doesn’t think she ate today and she’s cursing the fact because she’s quickly turning into an embarrassing pile of weepy nonsense, in front of Elvis Presley, no less.

This isn’t like her. She is no damsel in distress. She’s a strong, capable young woman who’s been dealt a bit of a shit hand, but she’s got it under control. She’s always got it under control.

Liar.

Pepper turns in the doorway to say goodnight and thank you to the man who so annoyingly but luckily had her back in that alley. She doesn’t want to think too hard about what could have happened if Elvis hadn’t appeared when he did, like some sort of movie star hero. Unfortunately, the spin towards him makes her dizzy and her wobbly knees start to give way.

“Hey now, little one, let’s get you settled, huh?” Elvis drawls out at her as he puts an arm around her waist and effortlessly ushers her into the apartment. She’s suddenly too exhausted to protest. It’s not often that anyone takes care of her. Honestly, she can’t remember the last time someone did, or the last time there was a man in her apartment.

He deposits her on her secondhand couch and its one of the many things tonight that has her embarrassed. Then again, she wasn’t expecting an incredibly handsome superstar to be gracing the walls of her tiny, dingy apartment.

Elvis stares down at her for a moment and his gaze is heavy and all-encompassing. It’s not what she expects—she’s used to the heated, horny looks she attracts from men—because it’s as if he’s surveying the situation, reading her with an intuitive intelligence she is not prepared for. She knows how to deal with men gawking at her—but treating her kindly with no expectations in return? This is unfamiliar in every way.

He nods to himself, making some sort of decision. His stance, one hip jutted out, hands on his hips and looking off to the side with his pouty lips parted, makes her feel a little funny in her belly.

Or maybe that’s just the hunger talking.

Her pride wants him to go, to not survey her poor existence and pity her. But the rest of her, the weak part of her desperate to have someone take care of her for once, wants him to stay.

Surprisingly, his face is devoid of judgement of her circumstance when his oceanic blue eyes meet hers again. There seems to be only concern and a bit of humor there. This confuses her.

“I’m starvin’,” he declares suddenly. “What would you say to some hamburgers?” His eyes sparkle—actually sparkle—when they look at her for approval.

Her stomach growls and before she can think better of the strangeness of eating hamburgers with Elvis in her crappy apartment, she’s nodding her head furiously.

“Charlie! Hey, man, get us some hamburgers and fries and shakes, will ya?” he tells the tiny guy who seems to be some sort of friend/employee, probably part of his infamous Memphis Mafia she’s read about in magazines.

It comes to her then that the man she’s read about and listened to and watched on screen for years is now in her home, and she is swimming in his yellow shirt. It smells wonderful—a heady, spicy mix of cologne and soap and sweat—and a silly part of her never wants to take it off.

Oh, god, he’s seen my tits, she realizes, her cheeks flushing.

“Hey, lemme get ya somethin’ to drink, honey,” he says, extraordinarily and infuriatingly observant, as he goes to pilfer around her kitchen.

“Oh, I’m just the worst hostess. I can get it,” she murmurs attempting to push herself off the couch.

He stops abruptly and points at her. “Stay.”

Pepper freezes. The command in his deep, drawling baritone is assertive and unarguable, sending a thrilled shiver down her spine that she’s not ready for. Almost as if her body were not her own, she slides back into the sofa.

“Whatchu got in this here ree-frig-er-a-tor?” he says, rummaging around in what she knows is a sad excuse for one. Her schedule hasn’t allowed time for her to go grocery shopping. She can hear him humming a familiar tune as he goes, and there’s something beautifully domestic about the whole thing that she doesn’t feel she deserves. He returns with two cans of Pepsi, popping the tab on hers before handing it to her, then doing his own.

She can’t quite bring herself to look him in the eye. “Thank you,” she says quietly, suddenly parched. She tries to be ladylike about it but can’t help but gulp some of the fizzy cola down as fast as possible. Of course, this all goes awry the moment the carbonation hits her empty stomach, causing an uncontrollable rolling belch to erupt her throat.

“Oh my god!” she gasps, throwing a hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry!” For some reason, this rudeness feels almost more humiliating that her top being ripped off earlier. At least with that, it hadn’t been her fault. This was just bad manners.

Elvis looks at her seriously, blue eyes narrowed as if he might scold her, and she holds her breath, wanting to crawl into a hole and die. Then he starts laughing.

It’s a giggling, hiccupping, musical sound that immediately disarms her in its contagiousness. She can’t help the way her own giggles bubble up. Suddenly, the absolute ridiculousness of this entire night has her doubled over with exhausted, hungry laughter, and he follows right along with her.

They are just starting to get themselves under control when she snorts. Elvis completely loses it and falls apart all over again.

Tears are pouring down her face now, and she’s grateful for this release in this way. It’s better than her weak and frustrated tears from earlier, and as she watches Elvis, she sees just how utterly beautiful, unselfconscious, and almost innocent he seems in his laughter.

She wonders if he laughs often. She hopes so.

Eventually, they are both wiping their faces and the giggle fits are dying down.

“Peppercorn, you are too much,” he smiles, shaking his head with a few lingering chuckles. “Who knew such sounds could come from such a pretty little girl like you?”

Peppercorn? She smiles at the nickname. If anyone else had called her that, she might have their head, but Elvis…well, he can call her anything he wants. Butterflies start rolling in her empty stomach when she realizes he’s called her pretty in such a way that it sounds like an obvious fact and not a come-on. Oh, he’s skilled.

The fact is, it’s almost bashful the way he looks down and then his eyelashes flutter back up to meet hers from the other end of the couch. As if she had called him pretty and not the other way around.

He opens his mouth to speak, and she thinks he just might say something profoundly charming, but his friend Charlie chooses that moment to reemerge with an arm full of food and shakes. And her stomach chooses that moment to growl loud enough for the room to hear, sending Elvis and her back into peals of laughter.

Charlie looks confused, but laughs along anyway, pretending to get the joke as he sets the food down on the rickety second-hand coffee table in front of the sofa. Then, without a word, he makes himself scarce.

Elvis digs right into the bag, taking everything out of it, handing her a wrapped burger and then tearing the bag apart to make a sort of makeshift tray on the table.

“I do have plates, you know,” she says with a lingering chuckle, moving to get up. She’d certainly never seen a man of his caliber of celebrity—probably one of the richest in this town—eat off a greasy paper bag before.

“Don’t you worry yourself. I’m just fine,” he says, unwrapping and taking a giant bite of his hamburger, followed by a handful of fries. “Eat your food, Peppercorn.”

She’s way too hungry to argue. After the burp and the snort, she doesn’t put on too many airs about eating daintily, either.

“Tell me about yourself,” he says in such an earnest way that she cannot stop herself from doing so. As they devour the food, he asks her questions, and she finds herself telling him about how she’d moved here because there wasn’t much work in her small town, about how she sends most of what she makes back to her house-bound mama and little sister.

These are things she doesn’t tell people here, preferring to tell a common tale of wanting the glitz and glamour of being a famous showgirl, instead of sharing that she’s using what God gave her only to support her kin. But by the haunted look in his eyes, it’s as if he knows, like he truly understandswhat it means to keep family at the forefront and tell the world something different. So her mouth keeps moving and she shares too much, but she’s weary and hungry and Elvis Presley is in her damn living room eating burgers like it’s a completely normal occurrence.

“So, you’re tellin’ me what you’re doin’ now ain’t your dream?” he asks.

She can’t help but choke a little at that. “Um, no,” she says, wiping sauce off her lip with a finger. “Waitressing all day and being eyed-up all night is not my dream. It’s a means to an end. And I’m happy to do it.”

“For your family.”

“Yes, for my family.”

“And what about you, honey? What’s your dream?” He says it in such a perfunctory way that it takes her aback. It’s a question no one’s ever bothered to ask her.

“I…I don’t know,” she says, looking away from his curious, reading stare.

“Mmm, not sure that’s true, baby. Ev’rybody’s got a dream,” he says. “Hell, I was just a poor boy drivin’ a truck ‘fore all this took off. Could barely sing in front of anyone but there was this…this thinginside me I can’t explain, pushin’ me forward in spite of it all.”

“Really?” she says, shocked at this revelation. She didn’t know those things about him, and they make him seem more human and all the more unique all at once.

He nods. “So, what’s your dream?” he says, looking at her with a curious expectation she can’t deny.

She gulps down a mouthful of burger. “Okay, well, this is probably stupid, but I’ve always liked numbers.”

“Numbers?” he questions, confused.

“Yeah, I like solving problems. Making everything add up. Numbers are…calm, predictable, I guess. I’m sure that sounds strange, a showgirl telling you she likes math. Most men…well, they think it’s weird,” she rambles, feeling her face get hot.

He shakes his head. “Naw, it just weren’t what I was expectin’, is all. Usually pretty girls like you, they…” he trails off, not needing to finish the sentence to get the point across, “but I like that you’re different. Special.” He looks at her with a sort of pride, like he’s discovered some treasure in her she can’t see in herself.

This sends a wave of appreciation over her that she isn’t prepared for, and she smiles broadly. “So, I suppose my dream is to work with numbers. Money, maybe? I guess I’ve never really let myself think that far into it. I haven’t been able to, with everything else…That must sound silly,” she says, feeling too exposed all the sudden.

“Not at all, honey,” he reassures her, finishing off his burger and fries. She gets caught up in looking at his full, pouty lips covered in grease and has the inappropriate urge to touch them. Blinking, she looks away, hoping he didn’t catch her staring.

“Sorry I’m talking too much. I usually don’t tell people...I don’t…I’m not one to…” She hides the floundering embarrassment of both her circumstance and her attraction behind the last loud slurp of her milkshake.

“Naw, Peppercorn, don’t go bein’ ashamed of doin’ what it takes to take care of your family or about havin’ dreams for yourself. We’re more alike than you think, darlin’,” he says, wiping his hands on the paper napkins from the bag.

She quirks her eyebrow at him.

He sighs, as though he’s been holding a weight on his shoulders. “I’m know I’m lucky. My dream came true and’s put me in a position that most don’t ever get to. I’ve spent a long time makin’ sure my people are taken care of, and I love to be able to do it, but I also know it can be…” he trails off, a look of guilt flashing over his features as he waves his hand in the air.

All she can do is nod at this confession. He doesn’t need to finish for her to know exactly what he means. Burdensome. Difficult. Soul-sucking.

He shakes himself off, whistling lowly, a shy smile curving up on his face.

Pepper’s heart starts pounding in her chest partially because he’s trusted her with this knowledge of himself and she’s trusted him with her own. The vulnerability of that is strange and somewhat uncomfortable to sit with. But it pounds also because she realizes with chagrin the meal is over and she doesn’t know what he expects of her next.

Despite her job, she does not have a habit of spending the night with men she’s just met, but Elvis is not just any man. There have only been a handful of boyfriends, half of which were back at home, and certainly none recently with what little free time she has. She’s no prude but she’s not exactly experienced, either. And one-night stands are not her thing.

He has been nothing but a gentleman this whole night and didn’t even ogle her when her top had been ripped. There was no reason to even think that he wanted such a thing from her, yet there is tension building in the air that she doesn’t know what to do with. Maybe it’s because when she looks at him in his well-cut suit with no shirt underneath (shivering at the fact it’s because it’s on her) and sees the sweaty tuft of chest hair that is exposed against his tan skin, something deeply primal rises in her and she wants more than anything to feel it beneath her hands.

Pepper blinks and quickly looks away. She knows what it’s like to be eyed up and down by the opposite sex and thinks it’s a little strange that they share that in common, too. Making him uncomfortable is the last thing she wants to do but now she is not sure what to do with her eyes and finds herself staring at a tear in the fabric of the sofa instead.

Elvis coughs, and she can’t help but look up at him then. Getting caught in those endless, sparkling eyes, mere feet from her, she wonders how in the hell the world is supposed to go back to normal after tonight. How she is supposed to go back to working her multiple soul-sucking jobs, to try to forget the way he is looking at her now, like she is actually something special? That she matters enough to save her in a back alley and is worth him literally giving her the shirt off his back?

Her body betrays her, then, a huge yawn escaping her mouth of its own accord. It reminds her it has been an extraordinarily long day and that she has the monotony of another tomorrow, despite everything that has happened in the last few hours.

“I think it’s time for me to go and let you get some rest, little one,” he says quietly, that little smile of his pulling at his mouth in a way that makes her think he doesn’t want to leave but will anyway because that is the kind of man he really is—not some sex-crazed superstar locked in an ivory tower that the magazines might try and make him out to be. He stands and makes for the door.

Jumping up abruptly, Pepper follows him to the door. She is not ready for this to end. She is not ready for this to be the last time she ever sees Elvis Presley. But she is also realistic and practical. Her life is no fairy tale, nor does she need a prince to save her, as tempting as it all may seem in the moment.

“T-thank you…for earlier. As much as I’m loathe to admit it, I don’t want to think about what might have happened if you hadn’t come along,” she says quietly, feeling utterly caught in his blue-eyed gaze. “And thanks for the food, too. I’m feeling much better.”

There is a twinkle in his eye. “I’m glad I could be there for you when you needed it, Peppercorn,” he says with such kindness that she thinks she might cry.

Silence sits heavily between them and she can’t seem to tear her eyes away from his. He finally turns to go, hand on the knob, and she moves closer to hold the door, but suddenly he pauses and turns back. She nearly runs into him. This close, she can feel the heat radiating off his body and it scares her how much she craves the comfort of it.

“My show o-opens this w-week,” he says, stammering endearingly. “I’d like you to be there.”

Her heart jumps into her throat and her limbs feel tingly. “I would love to,” she gushes but then reality hits her and her face falls, “but I have to work. I-I can’t afford to lose my job. I’m so sorry.” She wants to cry, but that would be even worse than rejecting his offer. Don’t be a baby.

Pepper thinks she might imagine it, but Elvis seems defeated, too, for a split second before he smiles knowingly. “Well, we’ll see what happens, honey. The universe works in mysterious ways, don’t it?”

Cocking her head to the side, she wonders what he means by this, but she is too disappointed to try to piece it out now. She is also distracted by his bare chest rising and falling so close, the scent of him permeating her senses. The air in the room feels thick and hot, despite the whirring of the air conditioner in the window. He starts to turn again towards the door.

I don’t want him to go.

“Wait!” she shouts, a little too loudly for the proximity and he jumps a bit. “Your shirt—let me get changed real quick and I can give you back your shirt,” she rambles out, making for her bedroom.

His hand encompasses her small wrist, his firm touch branding her in such a pleasurable way that she gasps. He turns her back around to face him, bringing her closer towards him. She goes willingly, too enthralled by the nearness of him to keep her distance. She’s usually better than this, keeping a safe distance from the wiles of men, but she has never felt the pull of someone so strongly. It’s like he’s magnetized. And he’s succeeded in making her feel safe and valued in a way she’s not used to, leaving her rather defenseless against his charms.

“Don’t bother, sweetheart. It looks better on you anyway,” he says, his lips curling up into a grin that melts her heart into a pile of goo. He runs his fingers along and down the tall collar of the shirt, and the action, while innocent, sends a glorious heat into her belly.

“Oh,” is all she can manage to get out, her tongue tied into knots. She desperately doesn’t want this to end. She considers asking him to stay, but both courage and words fail her.

His eyes scan her face and then he brushes her long hair back over her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Peppercorn, I have a feeling we’ll be seeing more of each other soon,” he says, as if reading her mind, as if he doesn’t want this to end either.

She nods, as if this makes all the sense in the world. It sets her heart galloping. She feels like it is about to beat out of her body when his long finger tilts her chin up to him, and he leans in and kisses her ever-so-gently on the cheek.

Her breath catches at the feel of his soft lips on her skin. It is somehow chaste yet incredibly erotic all at the same time. As a long-neglected warmth pools between her legs, a giddiness that washes over her that makes her feel like a schoolgirl.

Elvis lingers perhaps a moment too long before pulling back. “Goodnight, honey,” he whispers, then turns and leaves.

“Goodnight, Elvis,” she manages to squeak out before he disappears into darkness.

Once he’s out of sight, Pepper closes and locks the door, befuddled and hopeful and confused all at once. Her forehead lands on the wood as she closes her eyes, trying to reconcile this whole night with some semblance of reality.

He surprised her, truly, in his ability to be so down to earth. She is astonished (though perhaps she shouldn’t be) that he seems so complex, and she can’t help feeling connected to him because of all the small ways they are unpredictably alike. There is a part of her that very much wants to believe him when he said they would see each other again, but she knows her life isn’t build on wishes and dreams. It never has been, and she doesn’t expect that will change anytime soon, despite the bizarre fact that she can still smell the lingering scent of Elvis’ cologne in her living room.

Just be glad you had any time with him at all, she tells herself to try and manage her expectations. It would take a miracle for us to cross paths again.

Suddenly exhausted, she floats through her bedtime routine in a daze. But her doubts about the future don’t stop her from sleeping in his shirt, though, savoring the lingering scent of him on her skin and in her bed. And the feel of his lips on her cheek replays in her mind over and over as she reaches into her already damp panties to relive the ache he’s left her with. It doesn’t take much to bring her over the edge—imagining his sweet, pouty lips on her and his long fingers deep inside her does the trick—before she arches up with a strangled cry, clenching around nothing but a fantasy.

Breathing hard and barely sated, she collapses into the bed, wishing she’d been bold enough to invite him in with her. Refusing to wallow in regret, she finally manages to drift off to sleep with the unrealistically hopeful thought that his knowing smile means she’ll get to see him again someday soon, just as he promised.

Era One-Shot

A/N: This one has been sitting in my drafts unfinished for quite a while. Sweet Symphony started as a special request for '68 Special era Elvis from my Get to Know Me Gala way back in March! I also included the prompt, "Do it again, please." Nothing like a good two-fer!

A professional violinist Reader gets a little more than she bargains for after rehearsal for Elvis Presley's '68 Special...

Mature 18+ || Word count: 9.2k

TW: Sexxx in various forms, fluff, cussing, dubious use of a piano

For my most patient baby, @savedrebelcreation 💗

(If you want to get stories like this early, come join my Patreon!)

GIF by seredelgi

Sweet Symphony

A ’68 Special Era Request

You’re early. Too early, in fact, but your mother always said, “If you’re on time, you’re late,” so it goes to reason that for such an important job, you find yourself clicking your heels into the rehearsal room a full hour before it’s set to start.

The only reason they allowed you in this early is that your brother-in-law, Billy, is the one in charge of this portion of the production rehearsal, arranging the music for Elvis Presley’s television special due out in December. He had been tasked, rather last minute, to take over the musical arrangements. When your sister called on Billy’s behalf, saying he desperately needed a professional violinist to fill in for the one who’d been suddenly struck with a bout of appendicitis, you were a little confused at first. Why in the world would Elvis Presley need a violinist? had been the first thought in your head, but a job is a job, and you figure a television special of this magnitude wouldn’t hurt your classical resume.

Sure, why not? you’d thought, then packed up your violin and got a ticket for the next plane out to LA. If nothing else, I’ll get some sun.

Since your plane arrived late, you made the executive decision to go straight to the studio rather than chance the traffic by checking into your hotel first. Which is how you find yourself in the near-dark rehearsal space before anyone else has even thought to arrive, violin and suitcase in tow. At least you’ll get a chance to look over the score Billy just handed you before anyone else arrives, you think, finding a chair and settling in to unpack and prepare your instrument.

So focused are you that you don’t really register the door opening and then latching closed. You figure it is just Billy, who had been frantically going over sheet music up in the booth. When the piano begins to play, softly, you nearly jump out of your skin with surprise, having been so lost in sight reading and humming your part that you were oblivious to the presence of another in the room.

“Oh my god!” you gasp in surprise, managing to knock the loose pages of the score off the music stand as your hand flies up to your chest. “Damnit,” you mutter under your breath, scurrying to pick up the pages and put them back in order.

“I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t mean to startle ya,” you hear a gentle voice drawl out from the darkness.

“Oh, no, I just wasn’t expecting anyone in here so early and I was so caught up in…” you taper off, furrowing your brow and trying to get your sheet music situated.

“Here, lemme help you with that,” the voice says, kneeling to pick up loose pages.

“Oh, thank…” your voice hitches when you look down at the man holding up more music that had fluttered away across the floor.

It’s the sparkling sapphire blue eyes that catch you first, framed in criminally long, dark lashes, blinking up at you from where he’s kneeling on the floor next to your chair. They are utterly mesmerizing in the way they search your face apologetically. Your voice dies in your suddenly dry throat, and so mesmerized are you with those eyes that it takes you much too long to take in the rest of him.

That’s when you realize that the man with the pretty eyes on his knees near your feet is the one and only Elvis Presley.

“…you. Thank you,” you manage to finish, gingerly taking the pages from his grasp.

Elvis smiles up at you so bashfully, so charmingly, that it takes your breath away.

It doesn’t hit you until this very moment that you are playing for the Elvis Presley. Between everything happening so quickly and you assuming you wouldn’t get to meet the man himself, you just hadn’t considered the magnitude of the job.

You’d just hit your teenage years when Elvis came into his stardom, the timing perfect for swooning over the Southern boy with the rebellious good looks and the completely unique sound. But your parents had been strict and conservative, opting for your upbringing to be filled with learning and playing classical music, so the only chance you’d had to listen to Elvis was when you went to your girlfriend’s house. There you could swoon over him unimpeded, but it was more vicarious than anything else. And by the time you were old enough to properly swoon to your heart’s content, you were so busy with your music degree that it hadn’t really crossed your mind to ogle over Elvis.

To be quite honest, you had become a bit of a music snob at that point, so Elvis wasn’t really on your radar, though you had been impressed by his reworked English version of O Solo Mio. His It’s Now or Never had been a massive hit, and he had amazed you with his vocal talent, which you were convinced was wasted on silly pop songs. Needless to say, Elvis and his music had been off your radar for a long, long time.

You certainly hadn’t realized the man had only gotten more attractive as time went on. Magazine pictures and even his movies (which you hadn’t cared to watch since the beginning of the decade) don’t do him justice, which is saying something since you’d never once seen the man look anything less than handsome. But those damn eyes pop against his tanned skin and raven hair, and that curved-lip smile has butterflies flying in your stomach like a schoolgirl.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asks quietly, still kneeling at your feet.

“My name? Oh, um, my name is y/n,” you stammer out. You could kick yourself for how gobsmacked you sound, a grown professional woman nearly forgetting her own name in the presence of an attractive man. But the thing is he isn’t just attractive—he’s ethereal.

“Well, hello there, y/n. I’m Elvis,” he says, as if he were just some regular Joe and not one of the most famous men alive. “What do you play?” He motions to your music.

“Uh, violin. Well, and piano, but violin professionally,” you reply, unable to take your eyes off him.

His eyes light up at this. “I play piano, too,” he says, with such a little boy quality that you can’t help but smile.

“Oh?” This surprises you quite a bit since he is so synonymous with the birth of rock and roll and you’d only ever seen him with an acoustic guitar.

“Yeah, a lotta people don’t know that, but between you and me, I like playin’ piano more,” he says, with a wink. Elvis stands up from his crouch with little effort, so lithely that you equate it to a dancer. Your eyes follow up, up, up his lean frame, and you try not to notice just how well his tailored outfit fits him.

He walks back towards the piano he came from, and you blush when you catch yourself staring at his backside, like some sort of lecherous creep. Quickly turning your attention back to the pages of music in your lap, you force yourself to try and make sense of page numbers, shuffling them back into order.

“Do you know this one?” Elvis suddenly asks, shocking you by playing the opening notes of a well-known Beethoven piece.

“Yeah, I mean, yes. I do,” you respond, still stumbling over your words. “That’s Moonlight Sonata.”

“What happens after this part?” he asks, playing the beginning again. The question seems quite honest, still having that curious, young quality about it. Before you think better of it, you’re walking over to the piano.

“May I?” you say, standing near the bench. Music is your language. You’ve always been better with an instrument at your fingertips than with your words. It makes you feel bolder, so when Elvis only scoots over instead of yielding the bench, it doesn’t stop you from perching next to him.

It only takes a second for the movement to come back to you and you place your hands on the keys, letting them speak for you. You’ve done your share of teaching, so it doesn’t take but a moment to fall into that role. You just try not to think too hard on that fact that it’s Elvis Presley that you’re teaching.

He’s nodding along, eyes focused solely on your hands. So close to him, you can feel the way the music affects his body. It’s something you can relate to.

You stop yourself from speeding too far ahead in the music and pull your hands away from the keys. “Is that…do you want me to go again, or do you want to try it?” you ask.

“Do it again. Please?” he asks watching your hands with incredible focus.

You do, trying to keep it simple and without too much flourish.

“Okay, so it’s like this then?” he says after you finish, and as his long, slender fingers glide across the keys, you realize they are musician’s fingers. They may be dripping with jewels that are likely more expensive than your apartment, but they are quite perfect for the kind of instruments he plays. It strikes you he was made to do this.

You recognize then that Elvis is truly a musician and not just a performer. The way he concentrates, learning and adapting quickly as you show him more of the song, only by ear and sight, amazes you.

It's through the music that you begin to calm. Talking one musician to another is much more manageable than considering the magnitude of the person you’re speaking with. Frankly, you are completely amazed by how incredibly gentle and disarming the man is.

When the door opens again, both of you are consumed enough in the music that it doesn’t faze you much.

“Oh, hey Elvis! Just the man I needed to see. I hope y/n isn’t bothering you,” Billy says, in a teasing tone only a family member could produce.

“Hello to you, too, Billy,” you say, a bit annoyed at the interruption and at feeling put in your place as if you were still a child.

“Oh, no, not at all. She’s a great teacher,” Elvis grins, bumping your shoulder. “You two…know each other?” he then asks, his smile faltering in the slightest as he looks from you to Billy. The question is innocent enough, but the way he says it gives you pause and your heart flips.

“Since she was practically in diapers. She’s my sister-in-law,” Billy says.

“Twelve isn’t in diapers, Billy,” you scoff at him, then turn to Elvis. “He’s married to my older sister yet has never hesitated to treat me like a baby. Lucky me.”

“Aw, you know I only put up with you because you’re too talented for your own good,” Billy ribs, making to muss your hair.

You duck swiftly out of the way, bumping into Elvis in the process. “Oh, sorry!” you breath out.

Elvis just chuckles at the two of you, looking pleased as punch, though you’re not exactly sure why.

“I think what you meant to say is, ‘Thank you for dropping everything to fly across the country last minute to help me, dearest sister-in-law,’” you throw at Billy, batting your lashes.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure I’ll never hear the end of it. Now, skedaddle. I need to talk to Elvis,” Billy shoos you.

You suppress the urge to stomp your foot and pout, but you realize you really should act more professional than you are. Settling for a huff at Billy, you turn to Elvis. “It was nice to meet you,” you say, all the spunkiness you had towards Billy deflating into shyness the moment you look into those dark blue eyes again.

“Oh, I have no doubt we’ll be talkin’ again soon, honey, and thank you for the lesson,” Elvis drawls softly.

His words send a cascade of shivers through your limbs. You feel heady as you stand from the bench, shooting a familial glare Billy’s way, noticing the frown on his face as you do so. God, even with you being 27, Billy had the ability to make you feel like a scolded younger sister.

You force yourself not to look back as you head to your chair. Be a professional. Just because Elvis is handsome doesn’t mean he’s not the man you’re ultimately working for. Busying yourself with rearranging your music, you hear Billy usher Elvis out and up into the booth.

Well, that’s that, you think, rosining your bow, and you get to practicing.

*

You’ve been at your share of long rehearsals, but you will admit this one is both long and intense. The music Billy has arranged—this “Guitar Man” medley of some of Elvis’ songs—isn’t difficult music to play, per say, but you can now sense an underlying importance around this entire operation. Part of it is the barely held back frantic look in Billy’s eyes, and knowing him as you do, for him to be this frazzled means there’s a lot on the line. However, it’s when Elvis comes back, much later, to run through the medley with the orchestra, that you realize you can sense it in him, too. It’s well-hidden, to be sure, when the man introduces himself and shakes hands with the members of the orchestra, and you probably wouldn’t even have noticed if it weren’t for the relaxed way he’d been with you earlier in the day, but it’s an undercurrent all the same. Then, they send him into the booth to do his thing.

And, boy, does he. You’ve worked your share of Broadway musicals and operas, but you’ve never seen a man completely give himself over to the work in just a rehearsal quite the way Elvis does with this medley. It’s like he’s singing for his life. By the time it’s all through, Elvis exits the booth, dripping with sweat, exhausted but exuberant. His eyes sparkle and his body hums, some part of him tapping or jiggling or wiggling every moment, as though the music had become electricity in his veins.

You try not to stare as you slowly put away your bow, your violin, collecting your music from the black stand. You try not to, but you keep stealing glances because not only does he look enticing, but it’s also more that you connect with the feelings he seems to be having. The way the music can just take over and become something else inside you, as if you are the conduit to something much bigger than yourself. This you understand. And you’d never imagined a sensation like Elvis Presley would feel the music that way, too. Perhaps this is the secret to his massive success.

Almost all the other musicians have packed and left by now. You tell yourself you’re stalling so you can say goodnight to Billy before hailing a cab and finally checking into your hotel by midnight. You are exhausted, after a day of traveling and frenetic rehearsal, yet you are buzzing with the excitement only music seems to bring you. And you can’t help that the part of you that feels that way is being drawn towards Elvis like a magnet.

When Elvis catches your less-than-sly stare, a million-dollar smile spreads over his face and your heart flip-flops in your chest so hard it takes your breath away. Caught, you quickly and conspicuously look up and away, as though that will save the burning embarrassment on your cheeks. Suddenly, all you can think of is how fast you can get out of here, and you finish packing up like a fire has been lit under you. You scurry towards the door, hoping to escape before making a fool of yourself further.

“Hey, Miss Moonlight,” Elvis says, fingers light on your arm, stopping you before you reach the door, “whaddya say you join us back at my place for a little get together?”

The nickname would usually make you roll your eyes, but coming from him so sweetly, you balk under the attention. It distracts you so much that it takes a full second to realize that he’s just invited you to his place.

“I…uh, it’s been a long day. I-I haven’t even checked into my hotel yet,” you stammer, the excuse so unconvincing you might laugh if you weren’t so befuddled and nervous that Elvis is asking you…well, you’re not exactly sure what he’s asking you.

He quirks a perfect raven brow at you. When he steps in closer, you can feel the heat radiating off him.

“Well, I can have Joe swing you by your hotel before headin’ over, if you’d like, though there’s plenty of space at the house. We can set up a room for ya…s’probably more comfortable than a hotel,” Elvis drawls quietly in your ear.

You’ve never heard a man make a pass so naturally in your life, so much so that you almost hesitate to believe it is one. His low voice and the open suggestiveness spear straight into your core, threatening to melt you into a puddle on the spot.

In any other circumstance, you would laugh in a man’s face for suggesting such a thing. Generally shy, reserved, and cerebral, you’re certainly not the kind of woman who just spends the night at a strange man’s place. But this isn’t any other circumstance. This is Elvis Presley asking you to stay the night with him.

And maybe he does just mean it casually—a “hey, come party with us and you can sleep on the couch”—but at the moment, your body doesn’t know the difference. Your inner pragmatist begins listing off all the ways this is a terrible idea, but the only thing that cuts through the noise is the regret you know you’ll feel if you don’t accept this invitation.

“Um…well, okay. I mean, I wouldn’t want to impose, of course,” you manage to breathe back.

His lip curves up into an almost bashful smile. “Oh, Moonlight, you couldn’t be an imposition if you tried. Plus, you hafta show me how to play the rest of that piece,” he says, running a calloused fingertip down your pointer finger.

You can’t help the shudder that runs through you or the way your heart catches in your throat. “Well, how could I possibly refuse?” you finally get out.

“Fantastic! Hey, Joe, this is my new friend, y/n,” he says enthusiastically, calling over the shorter man. “She’s gonna be joining us tonight.”

Joe seems kind enough, albeit barely looks or speaks to you after the main introductions. Before you know it, you, your violin, and your suitcase are packed into the back of what you assume is a ridiculously expensive vehicle. Elvis slides in behind you, and you, now sandwiched between him and the car door, think you ought to feel apprehensive about the situation, but all your attention is fixed on how Elvis’ side is pressed up against yours. The heat radiates off him, bleeding into you, his leg bouncing so quickly that you think he might need to get out and run laps. He makes conversation, asking about how you came to be a musician and you uncharacteristically and nervously start rambling about yourself. You’ve got to give him credit for the way he nods and hums, truly seeming to listen to you even though your mouth is running almost uncontrollably.

By the time you arrive at the house, you feel as if you’ve told Elvis your life story and you abruptly shutter your mouth closed. God, I am such an idiot. Way to play it cool, y/n, you berate yourself.

Elvis kindly helps you out of the car, walking you toward the house as Joe follows with your violin and suitcase in tow. The way your heart pounds against your ribcage threatens to do you in—it’s all suddenly become very real that Elvis Presley is leading you into his house where you are going to surreptitiously spend the night. His hand is guiding you so gently at the small of your back, but the heat of it blazes through you.

Oh, get a grip! The man has probably touched thousands of women, you’re no different. You’re not special.

Realizing you’re holding your breath, you force yourself to take in air as inconspicuously as possible.

“You don’t gotta be nervous, baby,” he says, a cheeky little smile gracing those luscious lips of his.

“Sorry, I…this just isn’t where I thought I’d be at the end of this very long day,” you chuckle.

“Well, let’s make you at home then.” His smile turns reassuring and warm.

He spends the next hour getting you comfortable and fed, having the most amazing ability to relax your normally nervous nature without hardly trying. You can’t help but feel butterflies in your stomach at the way he seems to be continuously touching you—the press of his leg, an arm around your shoulders, the graze of a finger against yours—in a familiar way, even though you’ve known him less than a day. If it were anyone else, you would have leapt off the couch and run for the hills.

What surprises you the most is that you aren’t uncomfortable at all. Excited and nervous, yes. But you don’t feel preyed upon or anything of the sort. Frankly, you are trying not to get ahead of yourself about what the rest of the night might bring.

An impromptu jam session with his old bandmates has you feeling even more surreal. If someone had told you yesterday that you would get a private concert with Elvis Presley and his former band, you would have laughed at them. You find yourself unable to take your eyes off him and how he seems to get completely lost in the music, and you right along with him. His gritty baritone combined with the sensual way he tackles each song has warmth pooling in your belly. Despite the cranked-up air conditioning, you find yourself sweating and parched, especially in the moments he smiles in your direction.

You aren’t sure how much time passes, only that you feel the heady exhaustion of being up too long coupled with an uncharacteristic hungry adrenaline running through your veins. When the jam session ends, you are both disappointed and exhilarated for what might come next.

Don’t get your hopes up, you remind yourself. This night has been amazing no matter what happens next.

“Did you enjoy that, Moonlight?” he leans over and whispers in your ear. It tickles you and sends a shiver down your spine.

You nod. “Oh, yes.” It comes out more breathless than you’d like.

You feel him smile against your cheek. “Are you up for teaching me more of that sonata, honey?” he asks. It’s an innocent enough request but you can’t tell exactly what his motivations are, though for the first time in your life, you’re not sure it matters.

“Of course,” you say quietly, starting for the piano in the corner of the living space.

His warm hand catches yours, and you look back, surprised, as he shakes his head and pulls you in the opposite direction.

Your heart threatens to beat out of your ribcage as he leads you down the hall and into what you assume is his private suite. It’s not until he closes the door and you realize that you are utterly alone with him that you feel a glimmer of trepidation.

It must read on your face because he jumps in to reassure you. “Oh, honey, I just want to get to know you better, away from the rest of them. I’d never hurt you or make you do anything you didn’t want to do. Honestly, I don’t want the other guys ribbing me…they don’t go for the classical stuff,” he says quietly, looking away, and you think there might be a little pink rising on his cheeks.

His sincerity is palpable, and you certainly never expected him to be bashful about playing classical music. There’s a softness to him now, almost a shyness, that wasn’t present moments ago around all his entourage. It is like a yearning for one-on-one connection, and this part of him melts all your reservations and tugs at your heartstrings.

“Well, I do…go for the classical stuff, I mean,” you say quietly. You smile and squeeze his hand reassuringly as his deep blue eyes find yours again.

He looks giddy as he leads you to the second piano in the house, a baby grand in the far corner of the large suite. You sit down, opening the lid, and he slides in beside you. The heat of him rolls around you, the smell of his cologne and a day’s worth of sweat combining into an alluring combination that perks up your senses.

“Show me what you remember,” you say, and he starts to play, long, nimble fingers gliding gracefully over the keys. It amazes you that he committed everything you showed him earlier to memory so fast and so accurately. Something about it tightens a coil low in your belly. Unsure whether it’s your attraction to him physically or musically that has you so aroused, you swallow hard as he finishes abruptly.

You shake it off as best you can as you show him more of the movement, hoping the music might quell the buzzing in your veins. You go through it a few times, getting a little lost in the notes, as you tend to do. It only serves to stoke the fire in you when he picks up what you’ve shown him so quickly.

He finishes a phrase, and you move to show him the next, but his hand suddenly covers yours. Surprised, you look over at him to find his oceanic eyes searching your face so intimately that warmth blooms across your chest and your breath catches in the silence.

Slowly, Elvis leans over, cups your cheek gently, and kisses you. It’s almost chaste the way his incredibly soft lips press into yours and your surprise is so great that by the time you register what is happening, he is already pulling away.

His eyes open slowly, those lashes fluttering along with the fluttering in your heart and belly. Shock has you outwardly frozen but it’s as if he lit every one of your nerve endings on fire with the touch of his lips.

He must register your surprise as hesitance because his gaze changes to something akin to apologetic.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare ya. I shouldn’t’ve—”

Before he can get the rest of that sentence out, your body miraculously obeys you and you unfreeze. Boldly cupping his jaw with both hands, you pull him back to you and plant your lips on his.

It surprises both of you, and it’s a second before either of you relaxes into the kiss. This permission is all it takes, however, and then his mouth is languidly searching yours and his arms are wrapping around you to pull you close. Soft, short kisses alternate with longer more passionate ones, and you feel utterly spellbound by him, every inch of your body aware and alert to his.

Never in your life have you been kissed so well or so thoroughly. It’s as if the music in his soul must find a physical outlet, and the way he explores and opens you up to him is like him playing a new instrument. When his tongue rolls softly against your lower lip, you can’t suppress the low moan that comes out of you, causing you to open your mouth. He accepts the invitation readily, expertly, and the wet plushness of his tongue slowly begins exploring.

The warmth that sparkles and blooms across your chest travels lower still, sparking fires as it goes, until you feel your pulse throbbing between your legs. It’s nearly unbearable the way he stokes you without hardly trying. You’ve never felt so aroused so quickly or so completely.

Your eagerness is impossible to contain, your fingers buried in that luxuriously soft hair at the base of his neck, your body rolling towards his of its own accord, as if magnetized. You follow his rhythm, meeting his music with your own.

When he pulls back to trail kisses down your jaw, you are left breathless and clutching the lapels of his half-unbuttoned shirt. The nuzzle of his nose on your cheek as he finds and licks the tender spot behind your ear leaves you gasping. Pleased, he does it again and your entire body shudders.

Every inch of you yearns to be consumed by him. It’s never felt like this, not with any man you’ve been with. Those were fumbling amateurs playing one handed melodies in comparison to the symphony Elvis is invoking. While he is leading and in control, you sense as much eagerness from him as there is in you. It’s reassuring and flattering all at once.

There is an embarrassing amount of slick between your legs already, soaking the cotton of your panties and leaving you clenching your thighs together in search of friction. He must notice this as he kisses down your throat and across your décolletage because then he’s looking up at you for permission with those pink, swollen lips and dreamy bedroom eyes.

It’s unspoken, but you nod and he continues his sweet journey, one hand deftly unzipping the back of your dress while his lips follow gravity as it slips down your arms and reveals your chest. Pushing the fabric off and to your waist, his hand is then hot against your bare stomach. He hums in approval when his mouth finds the swell of your breasts that spill from your simple, beige bra.

A low whine escapes you. His apt response is to thumb your nipple to attention through the thin satin before lapping at the bud with his tongue. The result is a jolt of electricity shooting straight into your core, sending you clutching his neck and writhing against him. Expertly, he undoes the clasp in the back and abandons your bra to the floor in what must be a well-practiced motion based on the speed of it.

Goosebumps rise across your now fully exposed flesh, both from the cool air in the room and the way his fingers brush so lightly over your breasts. He seems pleased with the way your nipples stand at attention under his heated gaze. You don’t have the wherewithal to feel your usual self-consciousness; instead, the sight of his pupils blown black with arousal has you shivering with nothing but anticipation.

The combination of the way his tongue darts between his lips as he lightly pinches the hardened buds has you begging for more. “Please,” you moan and that’s all it takes before he’s lathing his tongue over and around the sensitive nubs, palming the fullness of your breasts. You can hardly stand it, how everything he does makes your body sing and want to scream his praises.

A quizzical look crosses your features though when he stops his ministrations and slides to his knees on the carpet on his side of the bench. For a second you are worried something you’ve done something to hurt or displease him, but when he beckons you towards him at the end of the bench with such arousal in his eyes it nearly knocks you over, you obey without a thought.

Elvis scoots you forward and kisses your belly, sending a new wave of tingles over you. He removes one of your low-heeled pumps and then the other, ghosting kisses along your ankles before running his large hands up the smoothness of your pantyhose, pushing your dress up with them. As if under a spell, you can’t help the way your legs fall open for him when his thumbs drag up the insides of your thighs. The little coy smirk that graces that beautiful face when he feels the damp that has soaked through to the gusset of your hose has your cheeks flushing and your lips parting.

You can’t bring yourself to be too embarrassed at how wet you are because the pleased look on his face at the discovery makes you feel like you’ve won the lottery. He pulls on the waistband, forcing you to lift your hips, before gently rolling the hose down your legs until they are off and discarded on the floor.

What you don’t expect is how he begins peppering soft kisses up your now bare calves, at the inside of your knees, and then up your inner thighs.

A swell of panic hits the farther up he goes, and you jerk up, unsure of what exactly he’s meaning to do. The men you’d been with in the past had been rather direct about the whole thing—once the clothes were off, they buried their pecker inside you and thrust above you, all with varying levels of success in getting you off as they did so.

But not a single one had kissed up your thighs and spread them open with a hungry and expectant look like the one Elvis had now.

Looking down at him, confused, you ask, “What are you doing?” in a voice that is a little too apprehensive for your liking, but you need to know.

He cocks his head at you a moment, as if trying to determine your level of seriousness. Then his eyes shine with understanding and in that low, Southern drawl of his says the downright naughtiest thing you’ve ever had a man say to you: “You ain’t never had a man take good care of your kitty before, have ya? Give her all the love and attention she deserves?” He runs a fingertip lightly over the wet cotton at your center and you shiver.

He can’t possibly mean what you think he means.

You must be gaping because he rises on his knees and catches your lips with his own before breathing, “Close that pretty mouth baby or you’re liable to catch flies up in there.”

You are speechless, unable to form words, but the question is written all over your face.

He leans back on his knees with a contemplative smile. “That sweet little kitty of yours ain’t never been eaten, has she, baby?”

Oh my god.

It’s all you can do to bite back a moan and shake your head at him.

He looks positively gleeful about this development, his shining eyes taking on a whole new level of arousal. Then he seems to notice your trepidation and reigns himself in.

“That okay with you, baby?” he asks.

You had never even considered it an option before, or that a man might like to do such a thing. Maybe he’s teasing you? Suddenly you feel very conscious of the mechanics of the act and breathlessly mumble, “You don’t…you’re sure?”

“Oh, I am.” The smile of anticipation on his face seems to echo the sentiment.

The enticing thought of that beautiful mouth of his being down there on you outweighs your uncertainty and prudishness. You nod your head. “O-Okay.”

You’ve never seen a man look so thrilled at the thought of being between your legs as Elvis Presley is. “Don’tcha worry, I’m gonna take real good care of ya,” he says comfortingly. “You just lie back and relax and let me make you feel good, honey.” Then he places a kiss just under the waistband of your panties and you let out a little sigh.

The piano bench feels slightly warm on you bare back as you lay down. Elvis, grabbing under your thighs, pulls you to the edge, and your heart resumes its pounding. You truly can’t believe any of this is about to happen and steel yourself for him to rip off your underwear and go to town.

But he doesn’t.

No, he takes his time warming you up, as if he’s trying to get you used to the idea. He kisses down one hip then trails down the panty line. You tense the closer he gets to your core but then he only ghosts a breath over it before jumping to the other leg and kisses up the crease on that side. The ticklish sensation is almost too much to bear as he works his way up to the waistband again.

You are panting by the time his mouth is grazing from your belly button downwards, pressing into the soft curls beneath the fabric. He stops just short of that forbidden little spot where your aching clit resides, and you push up on your elbows to shoot him a look.

A grin spreads over his features, his eyes narrowed like a crocodile’s and full of desire and he watches you intently as he finally places a light kiss over that sensitive little button.

The sensation is nothing like anything you’ve felt before and the whole scene has your body flaming white hot. You don’t recognize the low mewl that erupts from your lips and the only thing keeping you from throwing your head back is the way his eyes are locked on yours, as if feeding off your reaction. Then he uses his perfect nose to nuzzle into it before placing a firmer kiss there.

“Elvissss,” you whine, unable to keep from throwing your head back this time.

“You like that, baby? I barely even started,” he speaks, his hot breath puffing over the slicked core of your panties. He kisses down, down until over your entrance, where he then tongues the fabric, pressing it up and into you.

“Honey, you’ve done soaked right through,” he murmurs.

You’re not sure if he’s speaking to you or directly to your pussy. You’re not sure you care for the way you moan, the way your body shudders and writhes, suddenly starving for anything he’s willing to give.

“Lemme see how pretty she is,” he says, and God, if his filthy yet somehow sweet words aren’t stroking you in such a way that you wonder if you could come from his lilting voice alone. He pulls your underwear to the side, finally baring yourself to him, and he whistles.

“Just lovely, and all weepy for me, too,” he says, voice thick with lust now.

The anticipation has your heart racing and your fingers clawing at the wooden bench with a whimper.

“Okay, baby, I hear ya,” he murmurs kindly, then hooks his fingers in the sides of your panties and finally slides them down and off your legs. Then his hands are pushing them apart and his tongue is lightly skimming up your folds.

You gasp at the soft and silky feeling, unready even despite his preparations. When he circles your clit and then kisses it, bare this time, you are so aroused you’re afraid you might weep. But the teasing is done, and he tests you expertly. His tongue flattens and takes in the full breadth of you, licking a stripe up your pussy that sends your hips rolling.

He seems to gauge every reaction carefully, giving equal and alternating attention to every piece of you. Nipping, suckling, and kissing your swollen clit into submission and just when you think that heated coil in your belly might snap you in two, he moves down and kisses through your folds. When he laps at the arousal dripping from your tight little hole, tongues it, and then plunges it inside of you, you find yourself screaming out his name.

You can feel him smile and hum at your response, the vibrations adding entirely new sensations to the slew of new sensations you are feeling. He thumbs at your clit as he laps at your hole, and you think you might hyperventilate with how fast you’re breathing and how hot you feel.

So completely attuned to you, he pulls back and gives you a break, despite your whimpering protests. His full lips are swollen pink and slick down to his chin with you, and when his lip curls up into a knowing but almost bashful smile, you think this might be the eighth wonder of the world.

“You alright? I’m doin’ okay?” he asks, his left eyebrow quirking.

You giggle, almost drunkenly even though you’re entirely sober, because the question is so absurd but sweet of him. “Yes, yes, yes,” you say, words slurring.

“Okay, good,” he says, nodding. Then he rises on up on his knees and commands you forward with a come-hither motion so deft and quick, it has you drooling.

You are powerless to resist and push your dazed self to your elbows on the bench. He meets you halfway, kissing you deeply, lewdly letting you taste the tang of yourself on his lips. Distracted as you are by his wandering mouth, you aren’t ready for the way he slides two of those perfectly long musician’s fingers up through your silky folds and deep into your wet heat.

A shocked gasp quickly turns into a moan that he swallows with another kiss. He begins ever-so-slowly pumping those fingers into you and the rough pad of his thumb circles that sensitive bundle of nerves at the hood of your sex.

“Goddamn, you’re so perfect, so tight,” he breathes into your mouth.

You can’t stop the shiver that ripples through you. “I-It’s been a-awhile,” you pant. You can’t help but look down and watch the way he works you.

“Don’t you worry, baby. I gotchu,” he purrs, then curves his fingers just so and the pleasure that courses through you has you crying out.

Your brain is fuzzy, with only one thing on its mind. Luckily, Elvis seems to be reading it because he smiles that coy smile and returns those full lips of his to your clit.

For a moment you think you might die from the intensity of the sensations he’s procuring from you. Seems an awful lot like God gave him long fingers and a full mouth not only for music, you think. Though the way he’s playing you right now and the noises he’s coaxing out of you makes it seem like a whole different type of song he’s expert at.

The way he traces and flicks and suckles your clit, coupled with the obscene sounds coming from the way he’s fingering your pussy has you writhing on the bench and gripping his beautiful hair in your hands.

More, more, more, is the only thought left.

He hums against you with one last kiss and a wildly accurate thrust and curve of his fingers. The coil inside you explodes, then white-hot, full-body shudders violently overtake you as you silently scream and hold onto him for dear life as to not fly away into the stratosphere.

Your orgasm is utterly mind altering and earth shattering.

“Good job, lil’ girl,” Elvis coos, soothing you through the aftershocks with a lathing tongue.

You can’t think straight enough to respond, only whimpering from the empty feeling when he removes his fingers, then gasping again when he laps at the arousal pouring out of your core.

It’s all too much, and, overstimulated, you whine and clench and pull at him.

He sits up again, between your legs, looking mighty pleased with himself. “Come ‘ere, darlin’,” he says, pulling you up by your arms and sliding you onto his lap. Boneless and naked (save for the dress bunched in a ring around your waist), your legs fall open, easily straddling his hips. Your hands grip at his shirt and you bury your head into his neck, still dizzy with release.

He holds you steady. “Didja like that? Your kitty all happy and purrin’ now?” he whispers in your ear, sending a new set of shivers down your spine. All you can manage is a pleased hum and a nod. You kiss his neck, tasting salt on his tanned skin.

A soft moan escapes his lips at that. Suddenly, you become quite aware of the hardness in his slacks, pressing up near your swollen folds. The embers of your arousal have not died, and you kiss his neck again while slowly rolling your hips into his.

Groaning, he tightens his arms around you, holding you to him. You nip at the throbbing pulse point on his neck and are reminded just how talented and famous these hips of his are when he rolls them back into you in response. He’s rock hard, straining against his zipper, the tip of him bumping against your sensitive clit. You moan and find his rhythm, feeling the wetness between your thighs start to soak through the fabric of his slacks, creating a delicious friction.

Elvis pants heavily in your ear, murmuring curses and praises as he grinds into you. At this rate, you think he might come in his pants, which just won’t do. Not with the way your pussy is buzzing, and that coil is tightening again in your belly. No, you need him inside you. You need him to fill you.

You use what little returning strength you have and rise on your knees, away from his needy cock. The man actually pouts, his lower lip jutting out with a desperate little whine and it is so alluring you almost forget what you’re trying to do. You place a finger over his lips to quiet him, then set to the task of trying to undo his lavish belt and zipper.

Once he understands, he races to help, making much quicker work of the whole thing and finally his cock springs free. It’s quite long, and the deep pink tip peeking out of his silky foreskin is already shiny and weeping with precum. Of its own accord, your finger slides over his slit, circling the slick tip and spreading the wetness gathered there. He hisses. You bring your finger to your mouth, tasting the salty musk of him.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes, his hand palming his length. He gives it a pointed tug, then another, his lips falling open as he watches you.

He’s gorgeous in every way and it’s almost intimidating the way he looks at you with such open and vulnerable lust. You can’t bring yourself hold back or tease any longer, needing desperately to give him all of you, to give him what he needs. Hovering over him, you help line him up, then slowly descend onto his cock.

You are plenty wet—he’s seen to that—but even still, the stretch of him burns. It’s been too long since a man has been inside you like this and he is much longer than you anticipated.

A quiet, “Oh, oh, oh,” is all you manage to puff out as you bob slightly up and down, taking a little bit more of him with each tiny pump. He presses gentle kisses everywhere he can reach and murmurs encouraging praises with each inch that you conquer.

By the time you settle on the hilt of him, snug in his lap, you’re both groaning. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders because you are so full of him you don’t know what to do. You’ve never been so gorged and the pressure is a little frightening.

“Snug as a bug in a rug,” he slurs happily, letting you adjust around him. “Little Elvis likes you lots and lots, baby. S’like you were made just for him.”

“Little Elvis? H-He’s not so little,” you say with wide eyes, then giggle a little, which causes you to gasp from the tightness below and how it makes you clench even harder around him.

He groans. “If ya keep doing that, he’s not gonna last very long, darlin’.”

You try to move, but in this position and after that orgasm, you feel weak and a little like he’s spearing you in two. You’re almost too full, and the angle is not quite right. You wiggle in his lap, your brow furrowed, as your arms grow tighter around his neck. A low whine escapes your throat.

He notices your distress. Petting your hair, he babytalks at you, which under other circumstances might be strange for a grown man, but it comes so naturally to him somehow it both comforts and arouses you, “Oh, shh, shh, baby, s’okay. He’s a widdle much for ya, ain’t he? Sometimes he gets too ‘cited and gets ahead of ‘imself. But he’s gonna take real good care of ya, I promise.”

And with that, he gingerly shifts sideways, leans forward, and lays you down on the plush carpet under the piano. The movement has him sliding partially out of you, giving you some relief from the bursting sensation, and you let out a breath you hadn’t known you were holding. Your body relaxes.

He looks so gorgeous above you, with his raven hair falling in his eyes and a soft, bashful smile gracing his lips. You can’t help but smile back at him.

“That better?” he asks.

You nod.

Leaning down, he nuzzles your nose, then places soft kisses on your mouth. He coaxes you back to him, the heat building between you with each deepening kiss. So focused on the rolling of his tongue against yours, you don’t even realize he’s pressing deeper into you until he’s nestled almost completely, but much more comfortably between your legs.

You sigh contentedly into his mouth. The pressure still has you feeling full, but in a delicious, silky way this time as you finally relax around him. He rolls his hips smoothly, the strokes slow and deliberate, in time with the movement of his lips. Each stroke is better than the last as your increased arousal combined with his own slickens your inner walls.

“There she is,” he moans quietly into the crook of your neck.

That feeling is back, a chant of want, want, want running through your brain as the tension and fire in your belly begin to grow once more. When he bottoms out this time, your punctuated, “Ah!” is from pleasure and not discomfort. He’s managing to hit places inside you that you didn’t know existed.

You writhe under him, starting to meet his thrusts with your own, trying as you might to find that perfect spot he keeps slipping past. If only you had the right leverage…

It comes to you once you’ve hitched your legs up around his svelte waist. You lift your hips and plant your bare feet against the grainy wooden underside of the piano, meeting his next thrust with your leveraged one. It sends him deeper, driving into that little spot just perfectly. You keen.

“Oh, goddamn,” he moans along with you.

Each thrust seems deeper than the last with your legs pressing up like this. They shake from the exertion, but it’s worth every ounce of effort for the way you feel driven into the earth by his cock. Sweat drips off his face and onto yours as he showers your body with pleasure you didn’t know existed.

He thumbs your clit, timed perfectly with the piston of his hips, and you can barely breathe at the sensation. Gasping, your entire body shudders of its own accord as you hurtle towards another release.

“I…I…I…” is all you can seem to manage as your second climax starts to crest, and he grunts with effort above you, his eyes glassy with unbridled desire.

He mutters a string sweet filth that only fuels you forward, slurring and panting, “Oh, fuck, yes…such a good yittle kitty…good girl for me…look atchu taking ‘im so deep…never been s’deep…Jesus, I can see ‘im in your belly.”

You both look at the swell of your abdomen on the next thrust and this time he holds you flush against him so you can see the tip of Little Elvis bulge out the slightest bit. The moan you let out is obscene. Holding you at the waist, he doesn’t let your hips down, instead running the palm of his hand over the protrusion while he flicks your clit furiously. Then he presses down at the same time he thrusts as hard and as deep as possible.

Your climax hits so hard and so fast that it knocks the breath out of you, leaving you gasping his name, “Elvis, Elvis, Elvis!” Flaming white stars flash behind your eyelids as you flutter and clench around his length. Molten fire spreads from your core outward. You shudder and claw at him, at the bottom of the piano, at anything that will keep you tethered to reality while the rest of you shatters into a million pieces beneath him.

“Good girl, s’good fo’me,” he praises you through it, losing himself to you as you come apart.

You feel his hips start to stutter into you again because a primal need has him beyond the point of waiting any longer. Somehow, through shivering aftershocks, you have the wherewithal to force your eyes open, even as the rest of your body goes slack. He looks like Adonis in the throes of passion, his full and swollen lips falling open. In one fell swoop, he drops your hips and pulls his considerable length from you, his knowing hand pumping his slick-covered cock with expert precision.

Watching him come is a marvel and you make yourself commit this moment to memory, knowing it will fuel your arousal for years to come. He tenses above you, those sapphire eyes fluttering closed. Shivering tension ripples over him with a choked cry and through gritted teeth. Thick and warm white ropes erupt and splatter over your torso and you moan along with him. Then his eyes pop open pointedly as he watches himself cover you with his seed. The poignant, dramatic end of a brilliant symphony.

“F-fuck,” he pants, finishing off with another shiver. Exhausted, he catches himself just before crushing you with his weight, instead pressing his sweaty brow into yours. Your hot, heavy breaths mingle as you both try to come back down to Earth. He nuzzles his nose into yours before kissing your cheeks and your mouth.

Eventually, you find your words. “That was…incredible,” you say breathlessly, with no exaggeration.

He pulls back to look at you, with a goofy, pleased grin. “I told you I’d take care of you, Moonlight. And boy oh boy, was that a neat trick with the piano there…that part of your classical trainin’?” he says, blowing a lock of hair out of his eyes.

“Putting that college degree to good use,” you say with a giggle.

His eyes go wide and then he laughs—a musical, beautiful, contagious sound—which fills your heart up in a way you don’t quite understand.

He crawls back and helps you out from under the piano. Your back is rubbed raw from the carpet, which he kisses gently with apology, but you barely feel the sting. You are too dazed and relaxed to worry about much of anything.

When he helps clean you up and pulls you into his big bed, slotting you in next to him, you want to savor every minute. How he smells delicious and masculine, how the heat of his long body envelops your own—you want to remember everything.

Exhausted, you fall fast asleep, sated and cared for, knowing that you’ll never, ever be the same.

*

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[thatbanditqueen]

Come Hell or Come Sundown

A Charro! One-Shot

Summary: It is the summer of 1968 and Elvis finds himself in a New Hollywood, no more production code, just a ratings system with the promise of more sex and violence. This is good, because Elvis is in transition too! He is hot off the set of his TV special and ready to make a gritty western he can be proud of. Things are going well, he's making friends on location in Arizona, but then first they cut some of the violence, and now he's not so sure there is going to be any sex scenes in this movie. What's next, are they going to make him sing to his horse?

Inspired by the cut nude bath scene and the notes in Donna Lewis' diary that there were originally sex scenes scripted in Charro!

A response to the writing prompt: "Cowboy Elvis"

Warnings: References to past sexual harassment, minor drug use implied and kissing.

WC: 13.4K

Thanks to my lovely writing support group @vintageshanny @ellie-24 @be-my-ally @lookingforrainbows @from-memphis-with-love @missmaywemeetagain @shakerattlescroll @peskybedtime and to @whositmcwhatsit for alpha-ing most of this. It is been a crazy two months, I won't go into it, but if you are still reading my stuff let me know it.

July 29, 1968

Apacheland Arizona

Ina leaned against the back side of the sound stage listening to the cactus wren sing their sunrise melody for the desert. Off in the brush she saw a lizard scurry away. It was early, but the air was already beginning to heat up and hung there thick with promise. She took a sip of her coffee, savoring the light, sweet taste, her heart full of hopeful anticipation for the sweet day ahead. 

She ran her fingers down over her blouse, enjoying the smooth empty feeling underneath where round flesh had been a month ago. 

This picture had been the answer to her prayers, a sign that she could still land a part as the love interest role. It was a role she knew well, one she had been playing for ten years in vehicles designed to showcase male stars: John Wayne, Paul Newman, Jerry Lewis, and now Elvis. Ina rarely got a leading role in a picture focused on a couple or a strong female character, but she accepted it was still a good salary and it kept her busy on and off between modeling gigs.

Lately, however, the on and off had been more off, and her agent, Mickey, had started talking about auditioning for roles as older sisters, aunts, and even, gasp, mothers.

But then she got this and bam! She had knocked over her phone with excitement as Mickey  described this project as a “modern, gritty western.”  She’d even agreed to the nudity, accepting her agent’s advice that this was going to open up even more doors now that the production code was gone and the film industry had a new rating system that allowed for mature content.

The first American western with a sex scene. That’s how Chuck, this director, had pitched his script in their first meeting, while also assuring her it would be tasteful and artistic and mainly shot using her facial expressions. She hadn’t cared, signing anywhere they wanted if it meant staving off cinematic spinsterhood for as long as possible.

And then, after carefully examining every dimple in her bottom that night, Ina had launched into a month-long disciplined regimen of ballet classes, black beauties and one meal a day. Ina took a deep breath and inhaled the earthy, floral aroma of the Arizona desert, letting it fill her with confidence. Her tummy was svelte, her skin glowed with a healthy bronze tan, and she was ready to conquer the shoot ahead. She had a feeling about this picture. A good one. 

Hollywood was buzzing about the TV special Elvis had just finished shooting. Apparently it was raw and gritty and unvarnished, just like the script for this film. And Chuck, her director, was the king of the westerns, who had been promoting Charro! in the trade press as Peckinpah meets Leone with more sex appeal and heart. 

Ina looked out at the orange glow of the desert sky at sunrise one last time as she stomped out her cigarette butt and murmured to herself with hushed excitement.

“What a glorious start to a glorious day.”

She headed back inside and made her way around the back of the set where she bumped into Elvis’ stunt double and friend, Jerry. Ina grinned, she couldn’t help it, Jerry’s serious eyes and rugged shoulders made her heart skip a beat. 

“That was some party last night, huh?” 

Jerry looked down, his low chuckle heavy with the weight of words unspoken as they both reflected on the prior evening. Ina was sure she saw an echo of her own desire in the warmth dancing behind Jerry’s blue eyes.

“You should talk, Sandy Koufax. Charlie’s grateful he can still see.”

Ina gulped, covering her mouth.. “ Oh no! Is he really hurt? I felt so bad, I was aiming for his stomach.” Ina said, twirling her hair. “Although I didn’t feel nearly as bad after watching Elvis go after Alan with the whole bucket, intentionally, over and over. He really took it to the next level.”

“Oh, that’s just how the bossman lets off steam.”

“That’s one way to put it. Say, where is the old steam engine, anyway?”

“He just went out front to get some dirt on his clothes.”

Ina raised her eyebrow. 

“He wants to make sure he has that real cowboy look.”

“Huh, Elvis Strasberg. Who knew?” 

Ina thought of Elvis out rolling around in the dirt and tried not to giggle. This got harder and harder as she looked into Jerry’s eyes, which were also twinkling with amusement.

In a moment of vulnerability Ina decided to let down her guard and step closer, trailing her fingers over Jerry’s upper arm. His muscle flinched slightly under her hand and it made her feel a little flight of butterflies in her tummy. 

“Too bad,” she murmured in what she hoped was a sexy, flirtatious voice.  “I was beginning to hope maybe you’d have to step in for him today.”

Jerry’s eyes widened for a split second, as he ran his hand through his hair. “Uh, well, as far as I know his scenes today aren’t dangerous at all.”

“That’s what you think.” Ina smiled, walking backwards for a few steps to enjoy the slight blush coloring Jerry’s scruffy cheeks.

She couldn’t be sure, but she felt there was a spark between them, and it made her feel young and giddy. Fifteen years of having her body and self worth surveyed and scrutinized and picked apart had left Ina unsure of her seduction abilities. First it had been photographers and advertising executives, then producers and directors had joined the throng out to shatter her confidence. For some women, the brutality of the business helped them create a calloused, impenetrable outer shell and distorted sense of self worth. For Ina, it had done the opposite, and she frowned as she felt the familiar knot of insecurity tighten in her stomach and vowed not let her self doubt stop her from having fun this time. No, before the end of this shoot she’d get Jerry alone and find out if he was as quiet and soft spoken in bed as he was on set.

Twenty minutes later, Ina was still smiling to herself when she slunk into a chair in make-up and pulled her thick, terry cotton robe tighter around her body. 

“Look at you,” Bertie gushed as she toyed with Ina’s long, brown hair. “Excited for the scenes today?”

Ina paused and looked at herself in the mirror, letting out a nervous sigh. 

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” 

She awkwardly smiled up at Bertie, and told herself to relax even as her shoulders inadvertently rolled upward and she tugged at the hem of her robe.

“You know five, even three years ago, you would kiss, passionately, then the camera would pan to the bedside table and come back into focus with you smoking. But now, Blow Up, Bonnie & Clyde, the new rating system. It’s a whole new ball game out there. I’m not sure - “

“Oh, you’re gonna be fine.”

Ina looked down and studied the top of her cleavage, she felt strangely ambivalent about the nudity and the sex scenes they were shooting. She was proud that they wanted her to do them, it bolstered her self esteem and made her feel longed for and desired, special. But she couldn’t shake that nagging feeling deep down that she would get on set, bare it all and then have the director and DP exchange hushed whispers before pulling her off and recasting her role. She met her own gaze again in the mirror and tried to squelch her self doubt.

“I know, I know, and it’s all very tasteful. I trust Chuck. Still, I’m the one wearing a see-through robe. All Elvis has to do is take off his cowboy hat before he carries me to the bed. He might be shirtless in the second scene, but for the most part all we’ll see is a little bit of his ear.”

Bertie nodded into big rounds of hair she was smoothing over with oil and pinning into place with bobby pins lodged at the side of her mouth.

“Yeah, well, with most guys I’d be fine just seeing the ear, cuz women’s bodies are just more beautiful. But with Elvis, I kinda wished they’d have him nude too, you know?” She clicked her tongue and winked at Ina in the mirror,

“You should get Betty Friedan on that, it would really be a movement for sex equality. Though I bet he’d give you a private show if you asked him, Bertie. He’s making his way through the crew, two at a time I hear.”

Bertie wiggled her eyebrows into the mirror.

“Yeah, I heard about that, two of the pretty Mexican extras, right? They can have him, I just want to look at him. I don’t think I’d survive if he touched me.” She flipped her long red hair over her shoulder and bit her lip. “I don’t know how you are going to make love to him all day.”

“Oh, well, when it’s work, you sort of detach yourself. I mean, yes, Elvis is very handsome, but he doesn’t really send me, you know? You should have seen him last night with his guys. Like a pack of wild animals.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I think Jerry is the only one who has ever opened a book, or doesn’t eat with his hands.”

Ina tried not to move as she watched Bertha pin another round hair piece in place. 

“The stunt double? He sure has that silent type thing going for him.” Bertie squinted her eyes at Ina as she stuck a few more pins in. “Ahhhh, let me guess, that’s the type you go for. Over Elvis. Are you telling me that you wouldn’t, you know, play patty cake with Elvis if he made the move? I thought he always dated his leading lady, maybe those extras are just the appetizer before the main dish..”

Ina sat up, admiring the tower of rolled hair Bertie had constructed on top of her head. Satisfied, she leveled Bertie with a friendly but stern look.

“Things can get sticky when you bed your co-star. And giving in just encourages them. You shoulda seen Jerry Lewis trailing me around off set like a creep. like I owed it to him.” 

Ina grimaced, remembering Lewis’ sweaty brow as he had pushed her against the wall of her dressing room and promised that she’d like it, that she didn’t know what she was missing. She shuddered, thinking of him and all the others: the photographers who’d grinded into her as they straddled over her during a photo shoot. The producers who had invited her to an audition and then cornered her alone. She felt sick to her stomach and reached out for the random half drunk bottle of Coke on the vanity in front of her to wash away the bad taste in her mouth.

“You ok, Miss Balin?”

“Please Bertie, call me Ina. After that party last night I think we’re all on a first name basis.”

“Ha, yeah, I guess.” She turned Ina around to finish her make up. “You know, I think you might be the only woman here who doesn’t want to sleep with Elvis.”

“Thank god Elvis seems to be somewhat of a gentleman, because I’m not looking to be another notch on his belt, I’ve worked too hard to stay in this business without a casting couch reputation, and I plan to keep it that way. Plus, with all the bed hopping that happens on location, and then having to run scenes together if things get, you know, weird. Better to keep things professional between us.”

“On the other hand, a lonely stunt man...”

Ina winked, she could feel the giddy excitement bubble up just thinking of Jerry. She tried to stifle it and stay aloof as she spoke.

“A month is a long time, even a lonely stuntman deserves some company.”

A cough interrupted their giggles and the women turned to see Elvis leaning against the doorway, one hand on his belt. He squinted his eyes, looking at them with exaggerated suspicion as he wiped his hand over his forehead leaving a dark streak of dirt above his brow.

“Uh huh, and just what’d I stumble into here, huh? You two look like you are up ta no good, boy, I tell ya what.”

Perfectly lined smoky eyes sat below Elvis’ dirty forehead and more dirt billowed off his trousers as he strode toward the two women, his hands hanging off the top of his corduroy trousers. Bertie shot Ina a cautious glance in the mirror that warned her not to laugh, even as  the sides of her lips seemed to hold back a chuckle.

“I’ve seen that look before Iny Niny.” Elvis said. “Right about the moment ya took aim and fired at poor Charlie Hodge, square the eyes.”

“I really didn’t mean to hurt him! Really.” Something about Elvis’ easy charm made it impossible not to smile broadly. “I - we - we’re not up to anything, you. Just chit chat. I was saying how I almost didn’t recognize you when I got here yesterday. On account of that beard you got, Presley.”

“I almost don’t recognize myself, honey.” He paused and looked in the mirror, taking a step closer as he rubbed the dirt into his forehead more. “That’s probably a good thing, maybe this picture actually has a chance to be something.”

Ina sat up as Bertie dusted her with a last round of hair spray and swiveled her chair around to face him. 

“Oh, now don’t say that, there’s a reason you’re the star here. I love your movies.”

Ina may not have actually seen them all, but she knew of Elvis’ desire to be in more serious dramas. It was a common topic of conversation in Hollywood when his name came up. Ok, well, one of the common topics. Maybe not as common as his reputation for fucking his costars, she mused to herself, but still, as someone who had even less clout to be picky about projects, she sympathized with that ever present double bind of needing the money, not wanting to be seen as difficult, and yet, also yearning for more creative fulfillment.

Their eyes met and he nodded to himself, pursing his lips, as if he were reading her mind,

“Huh, so you're the one.” He grinned and took his cowboy hat off, running his hand through his hair as he tried to fill the awkward silence. “Well, sorry but I can’t issue you a refund, Iner Niner. All I can promise is that this ‘un will be better than some of the stinkers, I reckon.”

Ina smiled big, thinking of the desert sunrise this morning, all the good omens. “I don’t know if I would ever describe an Elvis film as a stinker. But I do have a good feeling about this film.” 

Elvis scratched his beard, a naughty blush lighting up his cheeks as he took in the very sheer negligee peeking out from under her white terry cloth robe. 

“Huh, feeling better and better the more I look- I mean listen to you, INy”

Ina felt a chill up her spine as she looked into Elvis’ dancing eyes, lingering on his face with newfound appreciation. There was something about the way the stubbly beard he had grown out for this role accentuated his jawline and made him seem more rugged, more handsome than he had looked when he played the polished romantic lead in his previous films. She felt a flutter of something unfamiliar stir in her belly; she had never been gaga over Elvis before. 

And you are not now, she told herself, it’s just the characters and the scenes you know you are shooting today. Besides, he flirts with everyone, why he’d been flirting with you and every woman in the bar last night even when he had one or two extras on his lap. 

Elvis arched his eyebrow, and Ina pulled her robe closer with a nervous laugh.

“Yeah, I think you’re gonna be seeing a lot more of me today.” She chuckled. “I was just telling Bertie I remembered when all I had to do to film a sex scene was lead a cowboy into my wigwam, and let the camera cut to smoke coming out of the top. We left the rest to the audience’s imagination.”

“Yeah, I think I remember that one.” Elvis whistled as he plopped into the make-up chair next to her.  “Well, don’t worry, we’re only gotta pretend to make love with an audience of a hundred or so crew members watching, so no pressure.”

They laughed nervously, and then one of the production assistants peered around the door and called to Ina that the DP was ready to work out the lighting for her fully nude bath scene. She stood and gave Elvis a friendly pat, smiling inwardly as she looked over her shoulder to see Bertie trying to wipe the dirt off his forehead. 

“See you out there in the ring, Presley.”

“Ok,” he smiled.

Ina studied him for another beat, wondering if the way his beard framed his lips made them look even bigger and more luscious, but she couldn’t be sure.

Striding from the building with wardrobe and dressings back to the soundstage, Ina considered how Elvis had managed to meet and completely defy her expectations. She had never seen him at awards shows, premieres or parties, nor ran into him around town or at the studio canteens. Indeed,he had a reputation for keeping to himself in Hollywood. All she knew was the second hand information she got from people who had worked with him and the Hollywood rumor mill. There were so many contradictory descriptions of him that no, she had not known what to expect when she arrived in Arizona and discovered an Elvis she barely recognized under the scruffy beard he’d grown.

When Chuck, the director, had brought her over to introduce them, he had been shy and sweet, sheepishly sticking out his hand with an affected deep “Hullo, I’m Elvis Presley.” But then by the end of the rehearsals yesterday they had become more comfortable with each other. Something about kissing Elvis inbetween jokes she knew he was making to make her feel at ease had broken the ice between them. And he had started in with the nicknames almost immediately, helping to bring her into the camaraderie that had been established with the crew before her arrival. 

The run through yesterday had gone well, all jokes aside, and he had shown himself to be respectful and kind, never pushing or trying anything when they were in each other's arms. It’s probably good that he’s sleeping with some of the extras, Ina thought to herself. That way there would be no pent up sexual expectations and she could just focus on being a professional and perhaps even friends with Elvis. 

Yes, she could be friends with him. Ina had only been in Apacheland for a little over 24 hours, but she could tell from Elvis’ warmth that they had established a solid rapport and chemistry for their roles. She felt as safe as she could with him as she readied herself for her first nude role on film.

“Today is going to be a good day,” Ina repeated to herself as she opened the door and entered the sound stage.

Ina was walking along the corridor behind the set when she heard Jerry’s voice on the other side of the plywood and hurried to catch him and flirt a little more. But then he said her name and she stopped, listening, as she realized he was speaking with one of Elvis’ other friends. It sounded like Charlie.

“I saw y’all. Why, she had her hands all over you, ya big stud. You really ain’t gonna try to bury the hatchet in that briar patch?”

“Oh, you know how Crazy can be. All I did was apologize to Alma and Flor for blocking the doorway last night and he ‘bout split in two. I ain’t about to try no funny business with his leading lady.”

“But you heard him call her Groucho, said he could barely stand to kiss her with that mustache above her lip. Said she was so manly, you could almost mistake her for one a the cowboy extras in drag. Like a goddamn drag queen who forgot to shave, is what he said.”

Ina felt the blood drain from her face and she began to tremble, tracing her fingers above her smooth upper lip, the one she diligently waxed every two weeks. They might as well have punched her in the gut with a steel two by four. She could almost taste something metallic at the back of her throat, where a lump formed.Tears threatened to spill from her eyes, and it took all her willpower to push them back as she stood there paralyzed while Jerry and Charlie chatted away.

“Aw, well he was off his rocker, she isn’t nearly as bad as that dog from continuity he had in his room at NBC, you know, with the big knockers?”

“Nah, I think In-ahhs pretty cute myself. If she’d been pawing my chest I’d be on that like white on rice, man.”

“Heard you like drag queens, Hodges.”

“Aw naw man, see, now that ain’t fair. Sides, that’s Lamar.”

The busy sound of the crew talking and moving around the sound stage echoed up into the lights with Charlie and Jerry’s laughter, but Ina could hardly hear anything except the pounding of her heart through her whole body. Air. She needed air. Ina hurried out a side door, her mind was racing and there was no way she could stomach the idea of filming a sex scene with Elvis now. Jerry and Charlie’s words had fractured the fragile veneer of confidence she had spent the last month building up. Dieting, ballet classes, early nights, slathering her face in cold cream and plunging it in ice first thing in the morning, staying away from alcohol and ice cream. She had worked so hard to get to a place where she had been able to look in the mirror and tell herself she could do this. Now all her self doubt had returned tenfold. 

Facing the desert, she lit a cigarette and muttered under her breath, her voice cracking as tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Oh god oh god, why did I take this role? Why do I embarrass myself again and again?”

Ina pressed her hand to her throat as she sucked in deeply, willing the nicotine to steady her shaking body. She longed to run off, get in her car, and maybe drive to that bar down the road Bertie had told her about, the one where all the baseball players went. 

The very idea of male attention was like a salve, and it helped her slow her breath as she slumped against the warm, concrete wall of the sound stage and looked out at the desert, focusing on the hills in the distance.

It was like looking out at a completely different view than she had faced that morning. The land was now  desolate and unforgiving in the July heat, and the jagged peaks of Superstition mountain loomed like a giant, dark fiery sentinel in the sky. Her chest rose and fell with each inhale and exhale of smoke, her fingers trembled as she tried to quell the turmoil churning inside her. 

Just when she was sure she couldn’t walk back inside, she smelled a hint of sage in the dust, it filled her nostrils with renewed energy. The wind whispered in her ear that she was stronger than she knew, she had trudged harder paths than this.  She could put one foot in front of the other.

The door next to her exploded open and there was the fresh face of the young, blonde PA who had called to her in wardrobe.

“Oh, there you are Miss Balin, we’re ready for you.”

Ina sucked in another drag of her cigarette and took a deep breath. She could do this. Elvis and his entourage were a bunch of childish idiots. Fuck them. 

True to his promise, the director, Chuck, kept the set closed for the nude bath scene Ina was shooting first. It was just him, the cinematographer, his assistant, the boom operator, and three female PAs. One to hold the clap board and two to help Ina in and out of the tub. The scene was blocked so the camera only captured her naked from behind with the side of her breast visible as she donned a sheer blue robe lined with black lace. They would run it from the top, then Chuck would run over and tell her how stunning she was and ask for another take as she shivered. It took eleven takes in all before he and the DP were content they had the footage they needed.  

Ina reclined in her chair, trying to warm up during the short break before the next scene. She was rehearsing the dialogue as people trickled in to shoot her first love scene with Elvis, and she suddenly became paranoid that other crew members had heard Jerry and Charlie’s story about Elvis’ calling her a drag queen. She sat up and looked around. Suddenly every hushed whisper was about her, every glance her way was filled with pity. She gripped the side of her chair and told herself to get it to-fucking-gether. 

The next scene was meant to occur directly after the bath, when her character, Tracy, discovers Elvis’ character, Jess, rummaging around in her bedroom looking for his gun. They would argue, then kiss, then argue more before he carried her to the bed. After that, he would remove her robe and begin to kiss her neck, stop and then put his hat on the bedpost, before the camera moved in for an extreme close up of her face as they made love.

Then they would break the set and set up for the second sex scene that was meant to take place at the end of the film when Jess has been victorious against the band of outlaws and takes her to Mexico with him to start a new life across the border. 

Ina squeezed her hand, using her thumb as a metronome as she said her lines. “I must look new to you - toooo you  - I MUST look NEW to YOU now.” She had these little games she had learned in acting class to vary the rhythm and emphasis over and over until she was comfortable in the dialogue, in the character, and it rolled off her tongue naturally, without having to think about it.

Elvis' voice rang out high above the buzz of the crew and all the words she had ever known fell out of her head. She felt her sphincter clench up tightly instinctively as if on cue at the sound of his chuckle, and a frown formed on her lips. The air was suddenly ripe with the smell of sweaty bodies and stale coffee and cigarette smoke.

Looking over her shoulder, just the sight of him surrounded by his flunkies made Ina’s stomach sour. A spark of defiance bloomed in her belly at his smug face and she longed now to walk up to Elvis and slap him sharply across the face before telling him off for being such a rotten two-faced charming bastard. But instead she popped another black beauty to fight off the hunger she had sensed growing in her belly and steeled herself to give the performance of a lifetime.

Elvis passed by her chair as she stood, a crooked grin pushing the apples of his cheeks up above his beard. 

“Well, might as well get it over with.”

His despondency made Ina bristle. She was completely incapable of stopping the prickly voice that sprang out from her throat.

“We don’t have to shoot these love scenes.”

Elvis paused in his stride toward the set and looked back at Ina, his brow furrowed for a moment before he grinned again, bigger and wider.

“Huh? Course I want to shoot ‘em, love scenes are my specialty.”

Ina narrowed her eyes at his stupid, smirking expression as he glanced around at his friends as they whistled and chimed in with a chorus of stupid affirmations. 

“Uh huh.”

“That’s right.“

“On and off the set” 

“Well, you seem anxious to, what was it, get this over with?” She said cooly, leveling him with a glare. “So then it must be me. Maybe we could just cut them from the film altogether. CHUUCK?”

Elvis’ face began to scrunch up in a frown as Ina’s voice rang out like a knife, cutting through the chaos of a live shoot. The sound stage had been buzzing with activity as the crew readied the set, but now everyone had stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at the two leads.

Elvis’ eyes zoned in on Ina and his face clouded with concern as his hands tightened against his body in clenched fists.

“Now see here - “ then he paused and took a deep breath, smiling big. 

That broad, smooth, movie star beam. 

“Aw, now I think we got are wires crossed someplace.That’s jus my ole stage fright talkin’, honey. Gets me ev’ry time like a sonabitch. Didn’t mean nothin’ by it, Iny Tiny, come get over here. I feel very honored to work with you. I been sayin’ all week, haven’t I, Chuck? That I couldn’t wait for Ina to get here, class up this joint’?”

Ina looked at where Chuck stood, hands at his hips as he nodded, a terrified grin plastered on his face.

“That’s right, that’s right. Why, that's what we’ve all been saying, Ina, we couldn’t wait for our Tracy to get here.”

Chuck dug a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped it over his big, balding head as he spoke slowly, as if talking to a spooked horse. Ina

“I think I know what’s going on, my dear.”

Chuck looked over at Elvis and then put his arm around Ina, guiding her toward her mark. 

“You’re nervous. We’ve just spent two hours during the bath scene. And this sort of  - um - delicate, shall we say, yes, delicate feminine performance is new to you, isn't it?”

“Well, yes, I suppose, but I - “ 

Chuck put his finger to Ina’s mouth

“Say no more, my dear. It’s natural to feel vulnerable in this situation. But let me assure you, everything is being shot in the most artistic technique possible. And you, well, just look at you, huh?” He spun her around in the center of the set. 

“Ina, you are a dream. My living, breathing Renoir painting. And I want you to know, that was my inspiration for your room here. The colors, the outfits, a Parisian chorus line meets the Old West. The colors, the costumes, they are meant to evoke the Belle Epoch, you know? You are wearing the same outfits Degas’ dancers wore, did you know that?”

“Uh huh, you mean if they wore anything?” Ina added in a clipped tone.

“See, and that’s exactly it! The original work of art is, of course, the beauty of the female form.”

“Cain’t argue with that.” Elvis smirked, but Ina shot him a withering look which threw him off again and once more he was frowning and searching her face.

Chuck noticed none of this and kept talking. 

“And you are an exemplary example of the female form, a perfect specimen of a woman.”

“Well, I assure you I am no drag queen.”

Elvis coughed nervously, his hands clenched in fists at his side. The quick, sharp look he shot Joe did not escape Ina’s notice and she knew then that he had said the things Jerry and Charlie had been laughing about. She narrowed her glare at him, telegraphing her contempt as he stuttered and tried to regain control of the conversation.

“No - ah-uh -er -  siree, honey, you’re the real deal, got more class than the rest of this outfit combined. Why, I reckon I’m more nervous ‘bout this scene than you are.”

Chuck nodded vigorously.

“Yes, we are all nervous shooting something that is, as I said, delicate like this. And your character is unsure in this scene, she loves Jess, but is torn, because she’s worried he is still the bandit she sent away.  Channel your feelings into the scene and let’s make beautiful artwork here today.”

Ina rolled her eyes. “Ok, ok, I’m ok. Like he said, let’s just get it over with already.” 

Elvis grinned as he walked around the set door to his mark. 

“That’s the spirit, Iny Beany.”

Chuck yelled action, directing them through the scene as the cameras rolled.

“You see him rooting through your stuff, and you think of how long it's been, how he left you without a word. You hate him because you love him, but you wish you didn’t and you are trying to keep it all bottled up. Beautiful. Indifferent. That’s it Ina, that cool, icy glare, it’s perfect.”

It was not hard for Ina to muster a cool, icy glare for Elvis as he looked down at her. Every time they started, one of the PAs would come over and spray her body and chest with water for continuity with the bath scene that was just supposed to have occurred in the storyline.

In the third run through, she couldn’t help herself when Elvis’ foot knocked into hers. She thought of that guilty grimace she saw move across his face at the words “drag queen” and she stepped on his foot. Hard. 

“Perfect! Perfect Ina, you’re nailing it!” Chuck called out from where he was watching the monitor.

“Nailing me is more like it,” Elvis said, jumping back, a hurt pout on his face. Then he reached out and stroked the side of her shoulder. 

“Say, you sure you ok? You’re not sore at me for something, are you? It’d be better if we just clear the air. If I said something this morning, or did something in passing, honey, I’m sorry. But you gotta tell me.”

Ina looked in his big blue eyes, searching hers, seeking a connection. She glanced off behind him, at the brocade pink wall paper. The air smelled of bath water, sweat and cheap aftershave. Chuck was right, she thought, this could be a cheap Parisian brothel.

“I assure you, I am fine.” Ina forced her mouth into a tight smile. “Just watch where you’re going and we’ll be fine.”

He squinted his eyes at her, but seemed to decide against whatever it was he originally wanted to say, and stepped back with his arms up in surrender. “Okay. Alright. Whatever you say, Iny,  my mistake. Let’s try again, I bet we’ll get it right somehow.”

They went through the whole scene three times, up until the part where Jess lifts Tracy up and carries her to the bed. Elvis’ eyes narrowed as he stepped toward her, uttering his lines in a stern, serious voice. But when he picked her up and hoisted her in the air, she heard Charlie’s obnoxious laughter in the background and their words from earlier began to play through her head again on a loop.

The shrill sound of his laugh sent a sharp bolt of pain down the center of her head and suddenly she felt as if ginger ale was bubbling up on to the top of her brain. She wasn’t sure if she could hold it together anymore. 

There was the taste of bile again at the back of her throat. She swallowed, running through all of the tools she had learned in the Actor’s Studio such as telling herself she was Tracy and trying to channel her anger into the tension between Tracy and Jess. She was, after all, supposed to be fighting Jess’ advances at first and pushing him off before giving in. But she could barely look at Elvis and instinctively jerked back when he placed her on the bed and began to move his fingers over her sternum. 

Her head throbbed and she could feel more tears welling up. She had to get out of there and take a little break, so she cried out, “CUT!”

Elvis jumped back, a panicked look on his face.

“Did I hurt you, Iny Beany? Wanna do it again, just to practice, from the mark by the bed?”

“No.,” she hissed under her breath, pushing him away. Maybe she didn’t need a break, maybe they could just skip this scene altogether.

“No, no no. I’m sorry, I just can’t do it. Chuck, do we really need a full love scene? We’re not making Belle du Jour here.”

Elvis had his hands on his hips, a stricken look on his face while Ina stood, straightening what was left of her dignity and snapping her fingers for the PAs to bring her thicker robe. 

“Ina, darling, we just went through this.” Chuck’s  transatlantic accent was getting thicker and higher-pitched the more he spoke. “And I hate to bring this up, you know I do, my dear, but it's in your contract.”

“Contract or not, I can’t do it. I just can’t.”

“My dear, what can I do to make you comfortable?” Chuck pleaded.

“Nothing. I would rather make love to a rattlesnake than to that man.”

Elvis stood taller, his fingers balled up into fists as his leveled, polished voice began to transform into a Southern snarl. 

“Yeah, uh huh, well I had about enough of this bull shit. Rattlesnake, huh? That can be arranged, honey, why, I’ll get it myself.”

“Well, I bet it will be small and limp, just like you.”

He staggered back when she hurled those words at him, flustered and mumbling as he looked around the set to see who had been in earshot and heard her yell out the words ‘small and limp’ at him. The answer, of course, was everybody. Because everybody in the crew was watching.

They had, of course, originally gathered around because Charro! was making film history with today’s shoot. 

All the popular European films being released had sex scenes, James Bond was having sex. Several recent westerns had initially included nude scenes, but studios had cut them at the last minute. 

But 1968 marked the dawning of a new era. The MPAA had a new rating system. Bonnie & Clyde had proven last year that audiences not only had a stomach for violence, but wanted sex. And like Bonnie, they wanted it much more than they got it. And so this picture, and about a dozen others in production, were all racing to give it to them.

Even if the plan was to pan to a hat and then just Ina’s face, Charro! was going to make history. 

Or rather, it would have made history. Instead, the entire crew watched in horror as Ina threw up her hands and stomped off in protest while Elvis coughed loudly, took a deep breath, and then announced to the crowd

“Don’t worry, folks, we’re gonna get Arthur Rankin in here and he’s gonna recreate these scenes with claymation. Make a little Elvis the Rednosed Cowboy.” His voice rang out with forced cheerfulness, followed by a ripple of nervous laughter that spread through the soundstage. 

“Boy, I tell ya what, now that would be a historical milestone, huh Chuck? Bet audiences would pay double ta see a stop motion love scene.”

The director nodded as Elvis patted him on the shoulder with a forced, playful candor and then strode out of the studio followed by his entourage.

Elvis’ motel room was dark, save for the television, an ever present companion, and the table lamp that cast shadows against the wall outlining Alma’s silhouette. The light captured every curve of her body as it lay sideways across the bed next to him. His fingers tapped absentmindedly over her bronze thigh, but his mind was otherwise occupied and failed to register the coquettish look she was giving him as she pouted and ran her hand over his arm.

He was thinking of his first film and the time had asked his co-star, Richard Egan, the secret to good acting.

“You. You already got it kid, in spades. Why do you think they renamed this picture after your song? Just be you, unaffected, unadulterated. You’re a natural.”

But what good had natural ability been without opportunity? He’d had such high hopes back then, hopes to be in real movies about real people, stories with an edge that packed a punch. And for a time, it seemed like he was. Dramas in which the singing was a plausible part of the premise.

But somewhere along the way the edge had been sanded off and his plans had all gone wrong. He’d gotten himself typecast as the type of character he hated, a romantic lead who broke into song during an appointment with the IRS. Those roles were fine for Rock Hudson, but not for him. He knew he could do better. Better than dumb musicals, better than all this. 

He had those same high hopes for this picture when he first read the script.

“Guess I should be happy this western’s actually being filmed in the goddamn desert and not in some California shrub valley,” he mumbled, balling his hands into fists as he spoke.

“What was that, baby?”

Elvis looked up at the woman lying next to him, he had forgotten she was even there. Her warm body next to him had become just another amenity of the room, like the mini fridge or the Gideons Bible. The puzzled look on her young, naive face reminded him how truly alone he was. 

Oblivious to Elvis' existential crisis, Alma decided maybe he needed some prompting after their kisses had dissolved into still silence. She moved her hand to Elvis’ thigh, stopping when he flinched and jumped up almost as if he were trying to escape her touch. She frowned, then flipped her hair as she adjusted and lay prone over the polyester orange bedspread, fashioning a come hither look on her face. She could tell he was rattled by the onset fight and was trying everything in her bag of tricks to laugh it off and redirect him to something better. Her. 

“Ha, small and limp. That bitch has no idea what she’s missing. It took all my self control not to cry out in front of everyone that you have an anaconda in your pants, Elvis.”

A grimace passed over his face, and Elvis started to button up his shirt and mumble to the floor.

“Don’t, baby - just-” He softened his voice at the rejection he saw in her eyes. “Honey, I can’t stand it when women do that.”

“What, what am I doing wrong?” Alma sat, her face falling as she scooted back against the pillows.

Elvis pulled on the red bandana around his neck and paced the other way, looking back at her as he tucked his shirt back into his clean, brown corduroy pants. His shoulders stiffened.

“Insincerity. I can’t, I jus hate it when women go overboard trying to puff up my ego. I’ve had my share of lovers, no one ever complained. That’s not the point.”

“It isn’t?”

“Nah, honey. What that bitch is really saying is she don’t take me serious, I’m not man enough for this fucking role, for her New York high society standards. Fat lot of good any a that did her, thinks I don’t know she’s been in what, five pictures? Jerry Lewis? Try twenty five, sister. Give me a goddamn break. She’s wound so tight, she could start a fight in an empty house, I tell ya what, boy, and that’s the god honest truth.”

He began to pace the room, wringing his hands over as he walked.

“This un’ is gonna be different, Chuck said, more raw, Chuck said, more real.” His voice trilled between a high falsetto and a deep growl. “Then first they cut the violence, and now this bullshit. What’s next? Bet they gonna try and have me sing to my fuckin horse!” 

He punched the wall. “Fucking cowboys don’t fucking sing!” He screamed to the ceiling, then began to pace again, his hands now balled up in fists.

He turned and looked at Alma. “You ever see John Wayne sing? Gary Cooper? ‘Fore they walked over to the OK corral to shoot the bad guy?”

He punched the wall again and then turned and tried to compose himself when he saw Alma flinch.

“Ok ok ok ok.” He took a deep breath. “I  - uh - this picture’s got me all keyed up.”

“Want some grass? Flor has some killer grass, make you forget today even happened.”

“Nah, honey -  now, good lil girls like you should know better than to mess with that stuff.”

Alma pulled her hand through her hair and struck what she thought was a glamorous, come hither pose.

“Want me to give you a blow job? Help you relax?”

Elvis frowned. “Man, like a goddamn cat in heat and twice as willing. Don’t you think of nothing else?” 

Alma sat up and started to put her clothes on, her voice as low as her hopes for the evening.

“You’re the one who invited me up here and had me undress while you watched. I’m just trying to do what I thought you wanted.”

“Well stop tryin’ to think, you’ll wear yourself out.” 

Alma grabbed her shoes and opened the door, finding Joe on the other side with one hand about to knock and another holding up a tray of food in his hands.

“Oh, hey -”

“Hey yourself.” Alma said with a huff and a very aggressive hair flip, her long brown tresses smacking Joe’s cheek.

Elvis shrugged as Joe looked after Alma, whistling to himself. 

“Man o man, EP, you got the prettiest girl here. What’s up her butt?”

“I don’t know - Something up with the chicks on this picture, man, stuck up and crazier than a sack full a possums.”

Elvis looked at himself in the mirror hanging on the wall across from the bed as Joe mumbled about how many crazy women they had met on their journeys, half-listening as he stroked his beard and reassured himself that he looked just as fit as Clint Eastwood. And more handsome. He winked at himself and straightened his belt buckle, then looked over at Joe.

“Now hold on a second, son, jus’ what in high heaven is that?”

Elvis lifted his hands from his left hip and pointed at the cheeseburgers and fries Joe had laid out on the table, fixing him with a dark glare.

“You said dinner, EP, brought you dinner.”

“Tryin’ to get me back in the 200 club like you? Don’t think I haven’t noticed you been auditioning for the part of lardass of the group.”

“But last night - I thought you - 

“I thought, I  thought - you ain’t thought shit, and that’s the problem. I’m supposed to be shirtless on film tomorrow and you fixin’ to get me fat as a boarding house cat.”

Joe frowned, furrowing his brow for the split second it took him to plaster a smile back on and nod. Now he understood what was up Alma’s ass, and what was about to be up his too if he didn’t turn this around.

“Right, boss, my mistake, tell me what you want and I’ll go get it.”

“What I want, what I want. Ain’t nobody cares what I want, and that’s the goddamn problem. Save a whole lotta time and money if you just thought to ask first.” 

Elvis put his hands on his waist and cried out an inaudible growl to the ceiling. 

“Jus… just bring me a caesar salad. A big one.”

Joe hurried out and Elvis went over to cover up the burgers, but the smell was too tempting, so instead he sat down and began to devour them one after another, mumbling to himself in between bites.

“Goddamit, if I look fat tomorrow it’ll be Joe’s goddamn fuckin’ fault.”

There was a knock at the door, and he yelled for whoever it was to come in as he went to wash up.

“Joe told me to come get rid of the - uh - food tray.”

Charlie’s voice trailed off as Elvis emerged from the bathroom and followed Charlie’s eyes to the table and the plates that were empty, save for a handful of cold fries.

“Well, have at it - wait.”

Elvis stepped back and looked around, grabbing one of the guns from the night stand and put it in his belt. He had all this nervous energy running up and down his body, he needed to just get out of this room, out of this motel, get as far as possible to just breathe some fresh air and think. He snapped his fingers at Charlie.

“Grab Gee Gee, we’re going for a drive.”

Charlie’s face softened into a big goofy, excited grin. “Okee dokee artichokee, where we heading?”

“Anywhere that ain’t this goddamn motel, numb nuts.” Elvis started to head down the exterior stairs, running his hand over the warm, wrought iron bannister. He looked back over his shoulder and clapped.

“Bring the cigars, too, then meet me at the car. Chop chop.” 

A renewed sense of purpose guided his steps as Elvis walked down the corridor of motel rooms that lined the pool,and he ran his hands up and down the front of his shirt. He mulled over what he wanted to do that didn’t involve eating more hamburgers. Or eating anything. 

When he looked up, he realized he had stopped outside Ina’s room. There, through the curtain, he could see the back of her through the curtain where she sat on her bed, talking to someone on the phone. 

“No no no, Mickey, of course I understand. Yes, well, I don’t know, I think you have to have been on top to get back on top, but your meaning is not lost on me. I get it. Yes. Opportunity of a lifetime. I know. Elvis Elvis.  Don’t worry. I’m gonna go make it right, right now.”

She looked up at the ceiling and wiped the sides of her eyes, summoning a mask of quiet cheer Elvis recognized well as she clutched the phone tight. 

“Yes, no  - I’ll be a good girl, Mickey. I promise. I know, I know, no bread.”

He was transfixed, enjoying the power he felt watching her unaware, and pressed closer to the glass, careful not to draw attention to himself. A small front section of her long, flowing hair fell out from behind her ears and she absentmindedly began to twist it nervously. She looked like a fragile little girl, like a beautiful flower someone had stepped on. The sight of her anxiously talking away pulled on his heart strings.

He shook his head. What the fuck had happened? Why was she so angry at him?  He'd played the part of the funny, affable host from the minute they met, introducing her to the crew and having Gee Gee get her screwdrivers as they all yukked it up in the bar. He'd about busted his gut when she lobbed a handful of ice at Charlie and knocked him over the back of the couch. 

He stood there watching as her big brown eyes lit up while she told her agent how nice the desert was. He almost believed her. Goddamit, why couldn’t she just be a good girl and get along? She’d been sweet and flirty in make-up and then what, an hour or two later, her claws were out and she’d aimed them at him. 

He whistled and thought about the fickleness of women as he turned to walk the long way around the pool. 

Thirty seconds later he heard the thud of a door opening followed by Ina’s voice calling out for him.

Elvis stopped, his hands moved out as if to balance himself as he swiveled around, slowly, to face her. A sense of dread settling in his stomach. Up above him, he saw Charlie and Gee Gee making their way down the staircase, while to his left a group of crew members were heading for the pool. The smell of chlorine wafted through the open air hallway.

He cautiously trudged back toward the doorway to where Ina stood, each footfall a slow thump of his cowboy boot against the hard concrete sidewalk. 

“Oh good, I’m glad I caught you, Elvis.” She swallowed, there it was again, that cheerful mask settling over her face as she exhaled a nervous laugh. “Could I talk to you for a minute?”

Elvis straightened up, looking around again before pulling on the red bandana at his throat. He definitely didn’t want to be alone with Ina. She was unpredictable and he couldn’t stand the awkward energy that flickered between them. However, he also didn’t want another public scene and he could already hear their names being whispered by some of the crew at the pool.

So he did what he always did with an audience, he mustered a wide, beaming smile and spoke in a nonchalant, cool voice:

“Hey honey, you ain’t gotta worry bout me, I’m all good. You get your beauty sleep and I’ll see you tamarra onset an - “

Ina’s lip trembled, she looked like she might fall apart at any moment.

Shit he thought, unable to stop himself from walking over to her and stroking her shoulder.

“There there, been a rough day. This desert heat, I tell ya what, baby, does things to ya head. Now go ahead and listen to ol’ Elvis -”

Ina put her hand over his where it squeezed her shoulder.

“Could we just talk - just for a moment?” Her eyes pleaded with him. “Alone. I -  I won’t take much time, I just - I’d like to apologize and clear the air if you’ll let me. Otherwise, otherwise I won’t be able to sleep and then you’ll be making love to a haggard old zombie first thing in the morning.”

Elvis' eyes softened and he looked around once more before nodding. “Ok.” 

As soon as the door closed he was an obedient puppy letting her lead him by the hand to sit on the bed, where he took off his cowboy hat and toyed with it in his lap. 

Ina stepped away, backing toward the dresser where she lifted herself to sit next to the TV, but then changed her mind. She felt like a ship adrift, unmoored and out of her comfort zone. Sitting and swinging her legs about was too casual, she decided, so she stood back up and swept the hair that had fallen out of her high ponytail behind her ears.

Just make it short, sweet, earnest, she reminded herself, you’re no stranger to eating humble pie. Indeed, Ina reflected on the number of times she had apologized unnecessarily just to smooth things over with her mother or sister, a producer, an ad executive. This was one of the first times she felt she actually had behaved badly and now she was lost for words.  If only there was a script for life. 

“I - um - thanks for seeing me - I - I - I.”

All the words left her head when she found Elvis’ dark blue eyes studying her beneath his long lashes. He was rotating his cowboy hat in his lap. The smell of the heavy floral cleaning products the maids had used lingered in the air, stronger now that the air conditioner cycled on with a heaving, mechanic whomp. She swallowed again, and counted to ten, trying to ignore the way the back of her neck seemed to prickle as a chill went down her spine. She steadied herself, forcing her eyes to connect with his. 

“Elvis, I am so very sorry. I mean it. I -  I - I - ’ve never lost it before onset, it is so unprofessional I can barely stand to look at myself.” 

She felt a release of tension as she watched his hands relax. He took a deep breath and stroked his beard.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Ina,  I been making two to three pictures a year since 1933. I can roll with the punches, ain’t nothing I can’t handle. ThoughI gotta admit you threw me off back there.” 

The register of his voice changed from rougher to softer as he looked down at the floor and then back up at Ina’s face. 

“Be honest, did I do anything to offend you or make you mad at me?”

His softer side was almost harder to withstand and his eyes seemed to penetrate her very being, seeking out the secrets she kept hidden in her heart. She shook it off with another nervous chuckle,

“No, no, this was 100% me. I’ve been so nervous about these love making shoots. Chuck’s is telling everyone back in Hollywood this is the first the first film with a sex scene - “

“Isn’t it?”

“Well, I mean, since the production code, maybe, but they’ve shot plenty of them. It’s just that the studio always pulls out at that last minute -”

Ina covered her mouth and gasped when she watched Elvis’ lip curl up at her words but said nothing. He didn’t need to. The glint in his eye said it all and when he waggled his eyebrows up and down Ina laughed out. She was grateful for the levity, it seemed to crack through Elvis’ cool bravada and made this conversation easier.

“Stop, you know what I mean.” 

She blushed, and looked out her window, watching as the silhouettes of two people walked by. It was getting dark, she needed to wrap it up. 

“But yes, today I was nervous, I haven’t been eating or sleeping much, but I promise you - “ 

Her voice wavered as she turned back to find his steady gaze. 

“ - um - no more fights, no more difficult behavior. I am so grateful for this opportunity to work with you and I just hope you can forgive me for my lapse of judgment.”

Elvis stood up, his fingers were once more busy fiddling with his cowboy hat and he spoke in a low whisper.

“Ok. I forgive you. So long as you really ain’t mad at me.”

The breath hitched in Ina’s throat when Elvis looked up at her, biting his lip in a way that made the top jut out a bit as he searched her face once more, as if she were a puzzle he needed to solve.

She gulped. “I - uh - I - no, I just need some sleep - I “

“Honey I can’t help feeling like you’re holding something back here, and if we’re gonna get along, I need you to be completely honest with me.”

Ina looked away. Damn him, he was like one of those fortune tellers back on Coney Island who she had believed as a kid. As a teenager she had learned the truth: they had no supernatural talents, they were just extremely gifted at reading their marks. Like Elvis was reading her right now.

“Oh, I may have been upset about something but it doesn’t matter, it was silly and stupid, like me. I - I was wrong, and I apologize. I’ll happily apologize to you in front of the whole crew tomorrow if you want. Really. If that is what it will take to make amends with you Mr. Presley.”

Elvis clenched his fists. 

“I don’t give a damn about a public apology or the crew or any of that. But I can’t bear it when a woman is sore at me and won’t say why. Ticks me off to no end.”

Tension hung in the air, and Ina sighed. Recounting the whole ordeal made it seem so juvenile now, though it still stung.

“I - I am, I heard some of your friends talking. They -”

“Which friends?”

“Jerry, Jerry and Charlie. I told you, it’s like high school and I can’t believe I let them upset me.”

“Well now you started, better lay it all out for me. Go on.”

“I - I well, I heard them laughing about how you had said I looked like - like drag queen that needed a shave. And they were calling me Groucho and saying I had big feet.”

Ina let her shoulders drop and forced a smile, but she couldn’t stop her hand from pulling on the necklace at her chest.

“Ha, actually now that I say it is kind of funny, you see I - um - I usually have a great sense of humor. Any of my friends would tell you. Some of them are drag queens, actually. They’d probably feel more slighted being compared to me. Your boys just, they  - they just caught me right before I was filming my first nude scene and well - “ 

Ina’s voice trailed off as she watched Elvis get up and pace towards the bathroom growling. 

“Those fucking nitwits, pulling a stunt like that and gummin up tha works -” he turned and his face fell at the pained look on Ina’s face. “You know I never said nothin’ like that.” 

Ina quickly shook her head, summoning the calm veneer that usually came so easy to her. She immediately regretted telling Elvis, now she felt as raw as she did after she had a full waxing appointment at the salon.

In her heart she knew he was lying, she knew from the way he had grimaced, albeit it briefly, on set when she’d said she wasn’t a drag queen. 

Yet there was something earnest and pleading in his eyes that made her question her own grip on reality. This got worse when he bit his lip and looked up at the ceiling, all vulnerable and apologetic, as if searching for the right thing to say. It made her stomach flip up into her throat. Then looked at her, his eyes wide with a newfound warmth as he sought a connection from across the room, as if he were seeing her for the first time. Ina knew right then that she needed to get him out before anything changed.

“Oh, yeah, sure, I know. And, well  it doesn’t matter anyway, right? I mean it’s none of my business what you think of me - like I said, I knew some knockout drag queens, so it’s a compliment really. Ha so - “

Elvis stode over as she spoke and grabbed her hands, his thumb delicately soothing the top of her knuckles. The spicy smell of his aftershave entered her nostrils as he spoke in a low, soft voice.

“Here’s the thing now, Iny Beany, I just need you to know though that I didn’t say none a that. Ya right, them boys still in high school, and they been playing pranks like we’re still in high school. I guar-an-TEE you they knew the assistant had just called for you, and they set that whole thing up to ruin my first sex scene shoot. Have half a mind to fire 'em. They need to learn some goddamn respect."

Ina found herself transfixed, unable to step away or pull her hands from his. She looked him over. He somehow looked like a cowboy who had let a bunch of drag queens dress him. 

He wore a fresh pair of dark green slacks, a thick leather belt and a long sleeve white linen shirt. Over his hands sat several jewel-encrusted rings matched by the two necklaces that lay underneath his red bandana, tied much like a silk ascot through a cravat. His foundation make-up was impeccable, and his hair was styled in a high quiff perfectly slicked back above his forehead. It made him look cavalier and polished at the same time. 

Then there was the way his smokey eye makeup was now smudged around his waterline made him look even more ruggedly attractive. Sweat glistened underneath his beard, almost like glitter.  There, in the dim light of her motel room he looked like the prettiest cowboy she had ever seen.

“Know what I mean?”

Ina shook her head, realizing she’d gotten caught up staring at his scruffy chin and lost track of what he was saying.

“Um, I’m sorry, what did you say?”

A sly grin tweaked up the corners of his lips.

“I said, you cain’t listen to a word outta those boys' moufs, ‘specially Charlie. His elevator don’t go all the way up, if you take my meaning.” 

Elvis stepped in closer to her, cautiously, waiting to see if she stepped away or flinched.  But it was all Ina could do to just keep breathing, each stroke of Elvis' thumb over her hand now sent a bolt of electricity down her chest.

“How I could I say something like that about you, Iny? Ya so beautiful, I could barely look at you too long before turning into mush.”

Ina rolled her eyes, but she could feel her own resolve waver as his hand moved to her hips and a blush crept over her face.

“Stop, you don’t have to lie to me.”

He shook his head, his nose tickling over hers.

“How can you say that Iny Meany? You have no idea, no idea what you do to me.”

Ina’s heart skipped a beat when she felt his thumb at the indent of her girdle. The air between their bodies seemed to crackle now with heat, and he pulled her closer, nuzzling his nose over hers. A tear rolled down her face and he lifted his finger to catch it.

“Ssshhhh, s’ok baby, s’ok. I got you. And I promise ain’t no one gonna talk like that about you again.”

He pressed his cheek against hers and she pushed back,willfully embracing the harsh scruff of his beard. She could feel herself teetering on the precipice of something dangerous. If she crossed this line with Elvis it would change the dynamic of their work together, it would change her reputation. She had vowed to herself she wouldn’t be susceptible to his charms, him, of all people. He was so obvious, so cliche. And yet here she was, nuzzling her nose back along his.

Emboldened, Elvis gently pressed his lips to her skin, peppering her jaw with light kisses. Ina eagerly moved to give him access to her neck and he instantly took the hint and suckled at her nape, pausing to grin as she moaned out a high, breathy unladylike moan.

Her chest heaved as their lips met and the faint aroma of mustard filled Ina’s nostrils.

“Oh my god, you taste like hamburger.”

Elvis chuckled, unsure of himself for a moment. Ina enjoyed watching him become self conscious.

"I’m sorry baby, you want me to go brush my teeth?”

She shook her head, pulling him closer and speaking between kisses.

 “No - mmmm - it’s amazing — mmm - haven’t had a mmamburger in months.”

Elvis let out a nervous laugh. 

“Ok, ya kook, I’ll be sure and eat hamburger every day.” 

"Ha! I'm gonna hold you to that, Presley."

His fingers brushed over her thighs as he lifted her onto the dresser and Ina trembled.

“You ok? Just say the word, and I’ll stop.”

She shook her head, stopping was the last thing on her mind. Though she suddenly thought of crew members at the pool who’d seen her call Elvis into her room to apologize.

“I wonder what everyone outside thinks we’re doing in here.”

“Hmmm, whatever they’re thinking, I guarantee it's not nearly as good as what I’m thinking.”

“Elvis - I - I don’t want to have sex.”

He arched his eyebrow.

“Whoo now, who said anything about sex?”

“I mean, of course I want to have sex with you.”

He stoked her thighs, a faint smile on his face.

"Relax Iny, we’re just having some fun. Don’t overthink it. We ain’t gonna do nothin’ you don’t wanna do.”

Ina released a nervous giggle. “OK, you see, I um, well, actually the thing is that I sometimes break out when I - I do it.”

“Really? You know that Max Factor stuff will cover anything.”

“Ha! I know - I just think tonight, no matter what I say later, we should just keep it simple.”

“I gotcha Iny girl. Sweet. Simple.”

Ina’s pulse quickened at the way he leaned into her chest, his hands worked up from her thighs. She felt like a giddy teenager as she smiled gleefully into his face, her right hand fiddling with his ear.

“You have a great earlobe, you know that? I can see why you’re a movie star.”

“Huh. That right? Cuz of my earlobe?”

He leaned in and kissed the top of her nose.

“Oh yeah, it's very photogenic. I see why this is the only part of you in frame during the sex scene. I mean the rest could as ugly as Boris Karloff -” Ina waved her other hand in front of Elvis face. “But this lobe, right here, it’s a million dollar lobe.” 

Elvis chuckled. “That right?”

“Uh huh. I hope you have it insured - oh god.” 

Elvis' right hand moved over her breast, flicking her nipple. 

“Hmm, well, maybe I should stop whateva this is and go call the colonel, get him right on that, uh huh.”

He moved as if to leave, smirking at how quickly Ina pulled him back into her arms.

“Don’t go.” 

She squeaked out, voice cracking.

“You sure? You don want me to fetch a rattlesnake to kiss instead? See if you like making love to his earlobe?”

“Stop.” 

Ina swatted him, straightening the line of his bandana. 

“Please don’t repeat what I said earlier, I was tired and nervous and upset and I hate myself for that whole scene. I really am sorry, Presley.”

“I know, baby, I know. I'm just teasing.”

He pressed his lip son hers once more and Ina rocked forward into him, following the slow, tender rhythm of Elvis’ body. She felt like a buoy, still unmoored and adrift in the ocean, but now she didn’t want to come into shore. She wanted to stay like this, swaying back and forth to the ebb of Elvis’ tide,  delighting in the wet smack of Elvis’ lips every time they smashed into hers. Again and again.

Her whole body buzzed when his fingers trailed down to her hem and absentmindedly began to work their way under her dress. He had notched himself between her legs, fitting snugly against her knee caps. She made a small squeak of surrender as she opened her hips to bring him in closer. The taste of onions and pepsi and meat filled her mouth as he took her with the tip of his tongue, slowly owning and consuming her completely. 

Elvis moaned into her and deepened their kiss.

Ina lost herself in the sweet supple cushion of his lips. His hands moved over her bosom,  fanning the spark in her belly into a flame. Then his fingers moved under her skirt and feathered over the warmth of her panties. Ina felt the bulge begin to swell at her thigh and then Elvis jerked back.

Every cell in her body cried out to pull him back into her embrace and then until he was inside her and they were melting into each other. Vows and boundaries be damned. Thank god he had some sense of self control.

“Whooa, whoa whoa.” He muttered slowly, almost painfully.

Ina nodded, licking her lips as she met his eyes.

“You ok?’

“Yeah, you?”

Elvis took a deep breath. “Course, honey, I - I - I just think we better put the breaks on for tonight.”

“Yeah, sure, no. Totally. This was exactly what I wanted.”

He wiped his mouth, shooting her an impish smile, like he knew exactly what she wanted.

“Guess I should clear out, huh?”

“You don’t have to leave, I mean, I enjoy your company. Is what I mean. But if you are looking to get lucky, then yes, I suppose you should find one of those extras you've been playing patty cake with.”

“Huh, okay, well I'll be on my way then. Catch ya later.” 

But he didn't move, just stayed there hovering above her. His forehead leaning into her as he pushed in even closer, pressing the air out of her lungs.

“You do have a reputation to keep up. I understand.”

"Mhmmmm."

Elvis shook his head and went to sit on her bed, up against the head board.

“Look, I'm willing to put my reputation aside, jus for one night. I promise, no funny business. Clothes stay on.” 

He smirked.

“Unless you’d feel more comfortable without your dress on.”

Ina hesitantly moved to perch next to him. She could still taste the mix of Elvis’ salty sweat on her tongue as she wiped her raw lips.

“That’s awfully accommodating of you, Presley.”

“What can I say, Iny Beany, I’m an open minded guy. Always say, if a girl wants to take her own dress off, who am I to say she can’t?’

“Well, if it’s all the same to you I think I’ll keep mine on. For now. There’s still time for you to make an exit.”

“Aw, now shut up with that exit junk already and get in here.”

Elvis pulled Ina down into the curve of his arm, and she sighed, embracing the cozy warmth of his body and rubbing her hand over the trim stretch of his stomach as he spoke to her in a soft, friendly voice.

"Alright now, I want you to tell me everything there is to know about you. How did  the hell you end up in a god forsaken Elvis Presley picture, huh?”

“Hmmm, poor life choices? But Elvis, I thought you liked this film? I thought you were the one who made it happen.”

“Aw, well, sure, the first script was pret-tee fantastic. It was gritty and had guts, ya know, but then these damn producers been wittlin' it away to nothing, man. Chuck cornered me this afternoon once you'd left and started in on nagging me to sing the title song.”

“You don’t want to sing? Just the title? it would be so good.”

“So you like the way I sing, Iny?” 

Elvis’ eyes danced but then he remembered what they were talking about and was solemn once more. 

“Yeah, naw man, that would set it up as another Presley musical, the next they’ll be trying to get me to sing to my horse. No self respecting cowboy sings, you ever heard of a singing cowboy? Never seen John Wayne sing.”

“OK, sure, but what about Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Hank Williams was the Driftless Cowboy, right?” Elvis leveled her with his blue eyes and pinched her side. 

“Hmmm - guess you got me there. But it’s 1968, I’d like to see Gene Autry sell a movie in today’s economy. My boy my boy. Today it ain't no joke. Can you see him in The Good, The Bad and The Ugly?”

Ina tilted her head in agreement back onto Elvis' shoulder, she felt the same way she did sinking into a pair of comfy, worn-in slippers, and founding his chest as relaxed and welcoming,

“Trust me, I get it, I’m just grateful I don’t have to do a rape scene in this film.”

He squeezed Ina tighter, kissing her cheek.

“Yeah, me too, honey, real grateful. Boy. Don’t know why anyone want ta see that.”

 “The old west ain’t what it used to be.”

“You can say that again.”

Elvis' arms closed around Ina tighter as they murmured the hours away, comparing diet pills, LA taco huts and favorite movies while their limbs easily intertwined into one another. The closest he got to undressing her was the moment around midnight when he stealthily undid her pony tail and played with her hair while she pretended to be miffed. Then he kissed her forehead and told her he had done her a favor, because it looked better this way, and she should just be a good girl and do as he said. Which got him a light slap and a big “HA!”

They spent the next hour enjoying a playful, cozy respite together in the dim orange glow of Ina’s hotel room. It was well past one in the morning when he gave her a parting kiss that turned into a series of parting kisses before he snuck back up to his suite. 

Shooting began the next day at 7 a.m., and you could have knocked the director, Chuck, over with a long, pink gaudy boa feather as he found Elvis and Ina in good spirits ready to work. They exchanged playful barbs and their onscreen chemistry sizzled when they went through each sequence, pausing between takes for Ina’s chest to be spritzed while another batch of assistants dabbed Elvis’ forehead with dry unused coffee filters. The industry’s secret weapon against perspiration.

Elvis found Ina in her dressing room during a break and their lips met with stifled giggles as they kissed now with away from the ever present surveillance of the crew, laughing and talked into each other’s mouths.

“Oh my god, now you taste like bacon. I swear Elvis, you’re gonna have me off my diet and then I’ll swell up like a balloon and then Charro! will be a very different film about a cowboy and his pregnant saloon madam.”

“Baby, you gotta let yourself have one hamburger now and then, trust me now, I been doing this longer than you. It will help the cravings.”

Ina kept her mouth shut as she calculated that she had been in this business just as long as he had, since she began modelling at 15 in 1955.

“Ok. I give in. I have no willpower around you. I will have one hamburger this week.”

“Tonight, honey. Imma have you for dinner.” He winked. “Over for dinner, I mean.  I’ll have one a my guys come get you and bring you up to my room later. ”

“Ok. Dinner. Tonight. Your room.” She grinned as she chased the taste of bacon on his tongue and the salty scent of his body as it enveloped her until a knock on the door brought them back into their roles on set as Jess and Tracy.

That night Elvis went through his usual routine after a shoot, which began with a shower to wash off the desert and the dust and the sweat of the set off his body. He took extra care in how he dressed, selecting a light blue dress shirt and a white suit, capping off his outfit with a small black porkpie hat. He doused himself in aftershave and the smell of Old Spice smacked Joe in the face when he came in to set up Elvis’ calls to Memphis and LA.

Once Elvis hung up his phone he leaned over and banged on the wall for Joe to come back in.

“You want me to get that sweet little Mexican gal boss? Alma?”

“Did I tell you to do that? That gal ain’t nothing but a big phony, naw man. Wait for me to tell you what to do, son."

Elvis stood up and went to slather more after shave on, exchanging one ring for another at his toiletry bag.

"Go down stairs and invite Ina up to join me for dinner.”

Joe let out a loud cackle. “What, Groucho?”

Elvis paused, taking in the look of disbelief on Joe’s face. His heart sank and he rubbed his hands over one another as he remembered how they all were howling at his jokes about her a few nights ago. 

He hadn’t even really meant it. He’d just said those things after watching Alma and Flor look at Ina with envy during rehearsals. All he had wanted was to put them at ease, make them understand he was attracted to them. Saying what he thought they wanted to hear. But then the boys had chimed in and now they all thought she was a dog. 

Elvis forced a low chuckle and ran his hand through his hair.

“Nah, man, not Ina - I meant Flor. Goddamn it,  this picture messin’ with my head.”  

He swallowed hard, thinking of the way Ina's beautiful big brown eyes looking up at him. They their legs had seemed to fit together, the way conversation had seemed to flow effortlessly. He smiled to himself thinking of the way she had blushed when he snuck into her dressing room. How her breasts had felt beneath as they ran their love scenes. He pushed away the pang of guilt for now and tamped down his desire to hold her once more. Maybe he'd sneak down to her room later if he could get away. But for now he had an image uphold. These guys looked up to him, and his control over them as their boss rested on the how cool they thought he was.

He snapped his finger at Joe. 

“But I don’t wanna hear y’all calling her that no more. Tell the others. Like I said this morning, y’all shitwads talking like that is what got me in trouble in the first place.”

And with that, Elvis spent another night surrounded by people and utterly alone.

I don't really think I did Ina justice here, look at how great they looked together. We were robbed of their sex scenes.....

taglist:

@i-r-i-n-a-a @ab4eva @eliseinmemphis @richardslady121 @artlover8992 @ashtag6887 @karolshungary @j-v-9-2 @waiting4brucewayne2adoptme @notstefaniepresley @dollette02 @dkayfixates @everythingelvispresley @velvetelvis @moonchild-daniella @lialocklear @obsessionisthecure @louisejoy86 @arrolyn1114 @literally-just-elvis-fics

i don't really have a taglist for one-shots and I apologize if you don't want to be tagged, just let me know and I'll take you off.

[powerofelvis]

Missing “reading Jack getting his ass beat by Elvis” hours.

@missmaywemeetagain

[aconflagrationofmyown]

Even Goldish in the Privacy of Bowls do it

A Sarge & lil Mama episode

circa 1966 (yes this got moved a little from original shooting time of the movie hinted at here-in, shh)

Elvis Presley x original character -chart refresher for kid’s ages HERE

Warnings: 18+ -y’all, this is perhaps my most unhinged attempt at chaos yet. Finally we’re getting to see more of the kids, maybe more than wanted when a man’s just trying to grab a quickie in the shower with his wife. Warnings include unhinged family chaos, filthy smut, Elaine using firearms, brief mention of animal death by gunshot, brief mention of implied young children sleeping in their parents bed/bedroom while past sexual activities may have taken place, and -PLEASE NOTE- multiple references to an eating disorder on Elvis’ part. Troubling issues like this are integral to him and his mindset at the time so I include them, but please be aware there’s language in here that’s dismissive and condoning at times by certain individuals, just as it’s pleaded against by others. Along with brief body issues and shaming. Just a caution.

Word count: 12k -hope ya missed my tomes lol

Thanks: ever so much thanks is owed to many for their help and support but particularly to the dolls who made this so much better worse with their suggestions. Calling out @missmaywemeetagain @elvisabutler @eliseinmemphis @ab4eva @stylespresleyhearted

Summary: when Elaine visits the Colonel’s bungalow early on a Hawaiian dawn to defend her man and his appetite for her fried chicken -bringing along a loaded firearm for emphasis- the pelicans aren’t the only things startled.

Seven o’clock in the balmy hours of a Hawaiian morning, a solitary gunshot broke the peaceful silence and sent the beach birds squawking into the jungle’s dense foliage.

As seven AM was an ungodly hour of the day to expect anything from a human being, Elvis Presley was still in bed, asleep, and finally settled into that sorta circadian rhythm that helped him sleep through nightmares, alarm clocks, voracious wives and the pokes and prods of three to five children in his bed.

But a gunshot was jarring enough he swam to the surface of consciousness long enough to fling an arm out and pat Laney’s sweet ass and mumble an inquiry as to wether she had any clue why someone was shooting a gun in fuckin’ Hawaii. Especially as he, the only one likely to do so, was, quite obviously, in bed with her.

Except Laney’s sweet flesh wasn’t anywhere to be grabbed the more he flailed his arm in the cold sheets and, with a sudden bolt of terror, Elvis sat up and searched about the room only to find her gone. Jack was, predictably, still clinging to the same pillow Elvis had mistaken as her. He felt a little validated by that.

Two more gunshots punctuated his growing alarm and before two seconds had passed he was flying out of bed despite the way Jack’s legs clung to him and he exited the bungalow door with nothing but his silk night shorts on and espadrilles.

“Laney? The hell are you, woman?” he bellowed out the veranda with caring bravado.

No answer. Which didn’t mean much but it was harder to shake shit like this since the recent uptick in hate crimes and the way those girls had jumped her at their own gate last summer. His knuckles ached at the mere memory of the pummeling he’d given those tarts’ car hood. Nothing funny or harmless about it.

“Laney!”

Jesse barreled out shortly after and stood beside Elvis with a mimicking pose of concern, staring out at the beach with his hands on his hips, surveying the glittering water in the fresh sun’s rays and the undisturbed sand for miles. She wasn’t anywhere to be seen for that long stretch of golden beach.

“You seen your mother?” he asked Jesse sternly.

“No sir, didn’t hear her go out either. She not in bed?”

“No, and I didn’t hear her either. Neither did Jack and he’s always wound round her like a sloth to a branch.”

“Maybe she’s the one doin’ the shootin.” Jesse ventured with a mild expression of hope.

Father and son were both recalling when Elaine had given Elvis ample complaint and ample warning to do something about his reprobate pet chimp and when nothing was done and a child was harmed, Laney stalked into the den where Elvis and the boys were going over rehearsals and asked if he’d like to do the honors of shooting the damn monkey. When he laughed her off she trumped upstairs and the next thing Elvis knew was Tink clipping past the den and out the front door in her heels with his shotgun in her hand, while poor, unfortunate Scatter was being carried by the scruff of his sailor costume.

By the time Elvis caught up with her she’d put five holes in the hairy little pervert. To be perfectly honest he was aghast at such overriding of his jurisdiction but it didn’t prevent him from appreciating that when she meant business, she meant it.

So, it was plausible Laney was shooting something at seven am, and that was one of the reasons Elvis loved her. The only trick was, there was no Scatter here, no enemies in the general vicinity for her to be shooting at.

Elvis commented as much to his young son in grave deliberation.

“ ‘Cept for the colonel.” Jesse pointed out blithely and at that excellent observation all of Elvis’ blood felt like it rushed to his brain and pounded within like a tribal drum.

“Oh sweet merciful Jesus-“ Elvis wheezed and took off from his porch in a sprint along the beach hedges, towards the colonel’s adjacent bungalow, the roof of which -now that he was looking- appeared to have smoke coming out of its abnormally saggy thatch.

“She didn’t like it when he called ya fat yesterday!” Jesse was still hell bent on a little redeeming PR and Elvis waved at him with the back of his hand in acknowledgment that, if Laney was murdering, it would be for him.

And his fat self.

And for the reputation of her fried chicken that Elvis had been laying off of ever since he got so damn pudgy no director would hire him without contractually asking for a little casual bulimia on the side.

It was all part of the business, the snow job of an available and attractive man made harder by the real life presence of a wife and brood of children. The addition of a decidedly fatherly gut wasn’t gonna make them money.

He got it. Laney didn’t.

He tried to jog faster through the sand before she put her fingerprints all over the scene.

Inside the bungalow Elaine fanned the smoke out of her face with red tipped fingers and kept her diction very clipped as was most effective with this self consumed weasel.

“Am I understood? No more sedation and no more starvation and stop recommending those damn uppers that keep him buzzing while his body goes undernourished.”

Elaine still gripped the shotgun barrel, right there by the racker thingy but Parker had watched this woman long enough to know that if he agreed, then she would be pacified enough, he’d live to see another day.

“I get you, Mrs. Presley,” he assured in a pleasing tone, one that always suggested she started this long war between them, “no more. It was the business I was thinking of, it is my role. And yours is to nurture. You cannot expect me to have the same leniency as a wife, but I bow to your superior discretion.”

“You’ve kept him from home, colonel, robbed him and my children of valuable time together just because he knows he’ll be tempted to eat when he’s home. You’re a cruel, heartless Scrooge, that’s what you are. And this ain’t over.”

“It was merely business, Elaine.” he looks close to crying and she feels tempted to blast another shell into his roof.

“It's not your fault Colonel,” she steadied herself and he always liked how she was not so emotional like some women, even if she was icier than Elvis would ever admit, “I wouldn’t expect you to know what appeals to women, you never had the chance to appeal to them yourself. But I’ll tell you now, just for your excelsior betterment, some women like a sturdier man, some women like more cheeks on their husband, and your gravest omission when thinking of his appeal -a slight ponch rubs ever so delightfully on a woman’s clitoris when making love. You have heard of those, haven’t you? Maybe not, I’ll leave you to peruse the encyclopedia. It’s under C.”

Elvis got smacked in the face by the opening door as she stepped out right as he barreled in.

“Good morning honey, why on earth are you awake?” she greeted blithely as the door swung behind her and she raked his bed head back into place with her hands.

“Because you were shootin’ up the damn island.” he cried, “The hell’s goin’ on, Tink? You kill the colonel?”

“No. Of course not.” she rolled her eyes, “I’m just on a roll, keeping varmints in their places. It was his turn.”

“What’s he done wrong?” Elvis was aghast.

“Oh honey we haven’t got the time for all that on such a perfect morning.” she laughed instead, “C'mon back to bed, when you wake up again I’ll make you your favorite.”

“I can’t have flap jacks right now, Laney, you know that.” he mumbled sullenly as they turned back to the path leading to their own bungalow.

“Yes you can.”

“Says who?”

“Says the woman who owns ya before God, that’s who.” Elaine retorted sharply and he sucked in a breath in appreciation of the vindictive mood still clinging to her. He should chastise her for her language but right now he didn’t wanna shift the mood. The racked gun at her side may have added to the thrill a little.

“You’re real pretty totin’ that thing around in just your kaftan.” he complimented

“Oh Naughty.” she breathed, a little blush flaring on her face. His simple little sweetnesses still getting to her far more than any of his wiles or spice.

“Really, just so pretty, sun’s gettin’ in your hair like it’s what it got up to do this mornin’. S’all gold.”

“Oh naughty, hush.” Elaine felt a fit of compliments coming on and was a little rusty at receiving them, truth be told.

“Why can’t I tell ya you’re pretty?” he laughed.

“You can.” she shook her head in amusement and tried to keep walking but his narration stalled her a few steps down the path.

“Your legs are gold too.” he was saying “Is this like your witchin’ hour or somethin? Do I gotta get up at ass crack a’dawn to catch ya like this?”

“I am in a kaftan, Elvis. And this is hawaii, hardly a new sight.” Elaine laughed herself.

“Yeah, and the sun sure goes right through it.” he was admiring the way her legs were shapely shadows under the cream linen, the illuminating ball of fire in the sky giving him a little show. “Is this how early I gotta get up to see this?”

“You’re sleep deprived, that’s why you’re so astounded by a woman in a kaftan, c’mon and I’ll help ya get back to sleep.”

“No, no I don’t wanna go inside yet.” he objected like a child in the middle of his construction when the dinner bell goes off, “There’s kids inside.”

“Yeah there are.” Elaine’s lip curled in wry amusement.

“Colonel gets ya alone but I don’t.” he wasn’t saying it accusingly, just a contemplative pout and Elaine shaded her eyes to watch his face as he stood in front of the glittering ocean, so bright its reflective rays were almost painful this early in the day. “Why’ve we got so many damn kids.” he joked, “Hardly see ya.”

“Aww well I’m here now.” she was touched and a little confused by this mood but she sauntered up to him, leaning the shotgun against a dune marker, and put her arms around him.

That seemed to be the right course of action as he gave her one of those soft little expressions that weren’t smiles so much as they were bashful little cheek scrunches of recognition. The extra cheeks on him made the expression almost intolerably cherubic. “You got up to blow his roof off but..” he can’t accuse her of not getting up to be with him, that was a damn lie, Elaine somehow managed a schedule that fit both the normal world’s waking hours and incorporated in his bizarre nocturnal clock, he very rarely was awake while she was asleep although the same couldn’t be said for him and this morning it nagged him, what little pleasant nothings he might be missing at seven in the morning.

“It don’t make a habit of it,” she reminded softly, “he just needed a talking to. It’s like spanking or putting a child to bed, never meant to disturb you and was gonna slip right back in next to you.”

“Yeah well, three gunshots kinda have the opposite effect, woman.” he shook her shoulders playfully.

“Well I think I got the message across.”

“What was the message?”

“I-“ Elaine paused to restructure her complaint into the mildest terms possible to preserve his sleepy temper and the peaceful scenery around them. “It’s kinda like you were saying with me! I miss you, the children miss you and it’s got nothing to do with movies and making money. You’re tired from the pills and from the starving and -lord, if I see you excuse yourself after one of my meals one more time just to hear you gaggin’ it right up, I’ll-“ she couldn’t quite finish that, wasn’t sure what she’d do but the most constructive thing she could think of after hearing it last night before bed was to visit the colonel and put some fear of God in him.

“How’d you-“ he scratched the back of his neck, sheepish.

“Oh heavens Elvis!” she pinched his cheek, “It’s the oldest one in the book for us women, when I didn’t shift the weight in two months after having a second set of twins it was recommended to me by all the other wives. Just because it’s old or common doesn't make it healthy and I’m just saying that if you’re unhappy and wanna fit in your old slacks then so be it, I’ll feed ya salads and cut down on the butter but there ain’t a single movie producer I’m gonna let stipulate or pay you to starve yourself. Sweet Jesus I- I know you like looking pretty but for god’s sake! You are! You are pretty, you’re Elvis Pretty Presley for the love of God and what are your children gonna think growin’ up watchin’ you treat yourself this way? It isn’t business, no! No! It isn’t! Hush up! It’s not! Business can be constructive or destructive and Christian business only builds up. Actin’ like a pagan by starvin’ your bodily temple that the Lord gave ya isn’t gonna sell us more movies.”

“You done?” he asked her after letting out a long whistle.

“No not quite,” she cooled her tone a little but stopped her hug to cross her arms and hug herself defensively, “Marlon told me they’ve been asking the same from him and he told them to go- well, you know. And they did. They’re still casting him in serious roles even if he’s not a breathing Adonis. They should be castin’ you in movies about human life not posin’ you like some cut out in a storyline.”

“Brando told ya this?”

“Yeah.” she said, “Because Brando’s manager does what he’s supposed to. I was just reminding the colonel that he is *your* manager which means he’s supposed to be your advocate not your damn jailor!”

“Sheesh alright,-“

“Elvis! It’s serious! I mean if Marlon-“

“God!- stop all this talkin’ about Brando, dammit!” Elvis bellowed and Elaine flushed bright red for an instant and it made him do a double take, thinking he saw a flicker of something new there but in an instant it was gone and -this was Laney, it couldn’t have been there in the first place, “Lord ya need to cool off.” he muttered.

He saw Elaine heave in a deep breath and cup her hand over her nose in that tell-tale way she had when she was regaining her control, started with the nose then the hand would go to the lips and then drop as she shook it out like casting out the damn emotions it collected before it fell to her side, diamond ring glinting in the morning light.

He wanted to say he missed her again, but that felt redundant. Instead he busied himself with observing how pretty she was and before he could voice that again, her eyes cleared and she smirked at him.

“Last one in is chicken.” she dared him before taking off over the sand, headed for the decently violent surf.

That was an old trick of hers, when shit became too real she just- played, instead. He felt it was for his benefit but maybe not, maybe it kept them both sane. He was as fond of the old trick as he had been the first time she pulled it in the studio back in ‘56. Elvis caught up to her about three paces from the surf and managed to swing her up in his arms and crash into the water together. After that first gasp inducing plunge and the salty sting up the nose, the water became a sparkling friend to them, and holding onto each other they surfaced and bobbed for a brief time, enjoying the sounds of the island waking up.

“So I guess I gotta get up at the crack a’dawn to do this with ya.” he griped again and pouted into her neck.

Elaine laughed and stroked the curling hair at the base of his neck, “If you want to escape the heat of the day and catch this lighting, then yes, yes you do. Otherwise, I’m here anytime you want me.”

“Why’d we make so many people!” his face puckered playfully for a moment, “I miss you!”

“I dunno, just sorta happened.” she fibbed herself and after a moment of disbelief he caught the joke and laughed too.

“I-I mean I try to be a good father-“

“You’re an excellent father .” Elaine butted in sternly.

“a-and part of that is bein’ with ‘em and I do try,” he laid his head back partially and let the water buoy him, “whatever you may say, I do try, but when I try I-I well, I let Daisy give me a haircut because she had her heart set on it and then when I get to the film set I’m told that was a ‘dis-reee-spectful’ thing to have done. I just can’t figure out how to manage what everyone wants from me. Just can’t figure it out.”

“Elvis, I don’t know why you’re caring so much what a half a dozen crusty old men say.” Elaine murmured, “Especially not when your wife finds your haircut rather fetchin’ and thinks the meat on your bones feel real nice when you’re up against me.”

“Oh?” Elvis tipped his head back up and seemed to register their close proximity for the first time. As if a switch had been flipped it seemed to be all his eyes could process, the material of her transparent kaftan clinging to what parts of her torso he held out of the water by his hold on her thighs and- Elaine thought it sweet how sometimes her man had a singular track in his mind and that was for sex, but just as singular could be some other focus and a near naked woman wouldn’t strike his as suggestive at such a time until he was made to notice. “Oh, Laney!” his eyes lit up as he surveyed his wife and then the coastline behind her, “Hell, baby, we’re alone, we’re genuinely alone!”

“I know.” her voice couldn’t keep from pitching low as she tightened her legs around his padded hips and watched in awed appreciation for the way his face’s coloring looked like it belonged in the blush splashed sea. “Seven am, for the lighting and for -the solitude.”

“Oh I like the lighting.” he muttered as if to himself as he swayed closer, eyes glued to her wettend lips. “And I like not havin’ all those damn people around. You get it don’t you?”

“Yes I do.”

“You tired of our friends?” he asked.

That could be trick question so she carefully shrugged it off, “Not really, you?”

“Not really just-“ Elvis pondered for a bit, his full cheeks squishing his mouth up and he looked the closest to his babyish self when he had married her than he had in ten years. “It’s just always so crazy ‘round us and I -I want more of this. Just not at seven am. I’ve got a naked woman in the ocean and I’m so sleepy I can’t even stay on track to get in her!” and he laughed ruefully.

“You can just kiss me?” she begged, “Kiss me and we’ll get you back to sleep.”

As if he knew what kind of his kisses she’d been missing most in this fast paced life -for Elvis Presley had many different kinds of kisses for Mrs. Presley- Elvis brushed her hair off her face with gentle care before thumbing at her throat, making her pulse jump from the swipe of his thumb before he brought his lips nearer and nearer as her own trembled and puckered in anticipation until after painful restraint those two plush pillows caressed her own. And stayed. And stayed.

Stayed until the screech of a car peeling out on the path they'd just abandoned made Elaine look up and she saw the Colonel’s conveyance speeding inland after breaking to view their little rendezvous.

“I’m sure we cut a rather scandalous figure in here.” she realized.

“Where’s the scandal when you’re married?” Elvis scoffed. “Besides, not even the paps want a picture of me when I’m this fuckin pudgy-“

“-oh not this again!” Elaine growled, kneading said pudge with vigor as if it would get her point through him better.

“Laney, you're sick in the head, we’ve established this already.” he replied, teasing yet not entirely unserious, “What appeals to you ain’t a rule for the rest of the world.”

“Ha.” she tossed her head back, “Let’s talk about trends then. The trend is towards beefier, hairier men, less of this pristine crooner image, more of the beefcake -Redford, Bogart, that sorta thing.” Learning her lesson on the beach, she omitted Brando from the list.

“Neither of those men are fat.”

“And neither are you.”

“But I don’t look like a star no more-“

“-oh, oh trust me,” she crowed, “if you got yourself a role where you could play a man, a real , raw, gritty man, theaters would be forced to change their seat cushions.”

Elvis scoffed again but asked again with helpless curiosity, “W-what kinda man? I mean, I’m playing real men, honey. Whadda ya even mean, Tink?”

Elaine kneaded his shoulders and pondered the earthy, sultry lines of his face and the heft of his chest beneath her hands, “A working man.” she admitted. “Salt of the earth working man. A man they show working. That’s what I mean.”

“Want me to play a mailman or somethin?” he rolled his eyes. “Real innovative, honey. I’ve been a race car driver, a-a-a Cowboy, I-I’m playin’ a pilot now-”

“I mean a hefty, strong working man who crawls out from under a sink he just fixed and lays a lonely housewife on her husband’s table and gives her something to keep her company at night.” Elaine rasped in his ear.

She felt the gust of his shocked gasp against her wet ear. “Hell, Laney,” he choked, “this-this somethin’ you wanna play?” he sounded scandalized and eager all at once.

“Always, when you’re ‘in this state’, my dear.” she murmured, thumping at his back significantly.

“Hell mama, I could lay you out good.” he swore, going back in for another searing, messy kiss.

“Is everything alright boss?” a yell from the shore startled them both and Elvis fumbled with his grip on Laney’s ass to lower her further in the water for modesty’s sake.

“You’re a lil late, Jerrah.” he snarked back at his friend who was investigating gunshots from fifteen minutes ago. “But yeah, yeah all’s fine.”

“Yeah, yeah ok,” Jerry hollered back, slowly backing away from the beach and up to the hedges, “I can see that. That it’s alright, I mean, like, I can see y’all are very alright. I mean, yeah ok, I’ll go.”

“Why’s he actin’ so prissy.” Elvis grumped but began to ease them both out of the surf anyway.

“You know why it is.” Elaine’s color heightened and Elvis’ grin grew wildly proud. “We were mauling each other a bit.”

“Oh you’re thinkin’ of those early days, hmm? Fresh back from Europe and alllll the world clutchin’ their pearls over how much we loved each other. Fuck ‘em.”

“Elvis!” Elaine prostested, amused yet aghast, “We gave them some cause!”

“Yeah buddy we did.” his tone held masculine admiration for the memories of leading Tink away to a darkened alcove in her pretty jewels and silks and taking her up against one of the ‘Cabana’s marble pillars. He’d had to move so slowly not to attract notice that it was practically cockwarming with a little jive to it.

“Don’t forget the boat.” she pointed out as if she knew he was hung up on another memory.

“Ooh, oh the boat.” he clutched his chest as if she’d brought up the fondest of memories and he was an old man reviewing the best in the twilight of his life, “God you looked so damn good in those photographs, Laney.”

“Elvis! It’s not a proud thing to be the first “indecent” photograph on the cover of Life Magazine.”

“We were fully clothed! They’d no idea what-“

“Yeah, yeah just a man casually playing hoola hoop behind his wife, I’m sure. That stupid captain’s hat,” she pretended to bemoan, “if you wouldn't have been wearing that I coulda resisted and we wouldn’t be on Life.”

“Five years ago, ‘bout time to give ‘em a refresher on the faces you make when lil Elvis is hittin’ the spot.” he snickered at his own joke as she swatted him towards the stairs to their bungalow.

“Five years is not sufficient to dim for me the awful talking to the colonel gave us that night.” Elaine retorted wryly and watched Elvis’ broad back shiver at the recollection before he jiggled up the steps in just his soaked silk night shorts. She stayed below for a moment just to enjoy the dripping, meaty sight of him.

“Lord mama, what was all that for? Was that you?” a wall of young voices hit them as they stepped into their house, five children in various stages of undress and sleepwear scattered around the front kitchen area and worked up by excitement to an ungodly level of energy this early in the morning.

“Yes, that was me.” she admitted cheerily and Elvis loved her for it. “Oh heavens, we forgot the gun-“

“I’ll get it mama!” Jesse was up out of his seat in a flash. “What’d you shoot with it?”

She kissed his forehead in a good morning greeting and soothed, “There was a varmint out back, kept me awake all night so I took care of it.”

“Oh, that’s real cool, mama.” Jesse’s eyes filled with admiration before he backed outta the screen door and flew down the path to get the gun in a blur of blue swim drawers.

“Cool.” Elaine repeated and tested the compliment on her tongue as Elvis laughed in a tired rumble that reverberated against her back as he clung to her like a sleepy child, one hand around her waist, his chin on her shoulder and his other hand busy stroking a clinging Rosalee’s head.

“Yeah, you’re real cool.” he insisted, his voice warbling.

“Outta sight.” Daisy offered from her place on the floor amidst a pile of crayons.

“Mhmm!” Elvis grunted, all gritty and revved up in her ear and she shuddered from something besides her wet kaftan.

“Alright, alright thanks.“ she batted the air like she could knock the compliments down that way, while trying to spin in Elvis’ hold. “Your daddy needs his sleep. Woke him up with all that racket, y’all be good and I’ll be back to fix food. C’mon Mopey, let’s get ya tucked in.”

“But Jack’s in our damn bed!” Elvis bawled.

“Not for long! He’ll be up for breakfast, come on baby, let me tuck ya in.”

“Can’t tuck me in the way I need when he’s there.” Elvis grumped.

“Oooooooh.” Elaine drew it out in understanding before turning back round to address their sleepy little audience gathered round the kitchen table, “Y’all get the flour and maple syrup out for me, your silly daddy dunked us in the ocean so we’ve gotta shower off. I’ll be back.”

“I know how to make pancakes mama!” Ella piped up, suddenly very awake.

“Alrighty then, pancakes it is.” Elaine smirked and saluted her before leading Elvis into the adjacent master bedroom.

“You’re showering with daddy?” Jack grumped from their bed, his stuffed whale toy clutched and his blonde hair scattered across the pillow, “I need a drink, mommy.”

“There’s this great thing called a water faucet in the kitchen, son.” Elvis snarked, now he was the one tugging Elaine.

“Well I can-“ Elaine began before finishing with a little scream as Elvis hauled her bodily into the bathroom with him.

“S’real bad to let the salt stay in your hair for long, Laney, you know this.” he tsked before addressing Jack as he slid the door closed, “Mornin’ Trouble, hope that pilla kept ya good company.”

“You’re awful.” Elaine snickered behind him as she adjusted the faucets. “Having a rivalry with your own son!”

“You like gettin’ fought over, don’t you even try to deny it.” he murmured, coming up behind her to kiss her neck -and help her remove her kaftan. “And I can dance better than him. So it’s a clear choice, lil mama.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t give me half the trouble you do.” she grinned, making fun of his nickname for the poor kid.

“You’d be bored to death without it.” he growled and it sent sparks down her spine as his damp and slippery silk shorts rubbed against her butt.

There was a knock at the door. Elvis quickly left off his romancing and bodily picked up Elaine and set her behind the shower curtain in the steaming bath.

“What?” he asked of Jack, because of course it was Jack.

“You’re not in yet.”

“Thanks t’you,” Elvis laughed, “now what?”

“My whale wants to go swimming with you.” he held up his fuzzy sea creature.

Elvis took a very nasally breath and held it, “Jack, there’s a whole goddamn ocea-“

“Elvis!” came a rebuke from behind the curtain and only the thought of Elaine naked and slippery back there gave him fortitude to begin again, although in a mockingly patient voice:

“Jack, there’s an entire ocean out there for you and your whale to swim in. He swam yesterday and I’m sure mama’s gonna take ya this afternoon. Now go eat Ella’s pancakes. Good mornin’.” and he shut the door.

He tore into the shower so fast he didn’t even shuck his swim trunks, spurred by the image of Elaine lazily wetting her hair under the spray. She looked at him and at his dripping silk shorts and the outline of little Elvis poking needily out the waistband and bit her lip to suppress a grin. It was pretty gratifying to be so wanted.

“Did you lock the door?” she asked breezily and saw the exhaustion cloud his face once more.

“No.” he admitted and stared at the shower curtain while contemplating the door beyond it, “Nope, and if he comes in, it’s on him what he sees.”

“The kid has seen a lot and it hasn’t deterred him yet.” she laughed.

Elvis still stared at the curtain, “Yeah, maybe we should take him to see someone ‘bout that.”

“Oh hush,” Elaine smacked his belly, “couldn’t be hereditary or anything, could it?” she joked.

“I did not cockblock my father at every goddman opportunity!” he railed, playfully backing her into the tiled wall.

“Oh?” Elaine grinned, “That’s not how Vernon recalls it.”

“Vernon’s a bastard!” Six years after Jack’s birth and Elvis was still aggrieved by the suggestion that his doppleganger was anything like him. “Just makes that shit up to justify remarryin’ so fast, actin’ like mama weren’t the best thing that ever happened to his sorry a-“

“I know, I know.” Elaine soothed, regretting this line of conflict. “Just teasing.”

“Don’t tease.” he begged, kissing her under the spray, “I’m tired and I don’t want it.”

“Ok.” she assured, returning his smooches, “No teasing it is then. C’mon now, help me, step outta of them.” she kneeled under the fall of water and peeled away his shorts.

It was a gift every time, pulling the fabric away to see her man and that alluring place that all his costumes and paraphernalia teased but only she got to see at the end of it all. Those deep and skimpy tan lines that marked her territory versus the rest of him that the world saw, like a sovereign country’s borders. Thighs thicker than usual and soft brown skin stretching over his fuller belly, that dark thatch of hair so fastidiously trimmed and leaky lil Elvis collecting shower droplets on his bubblegum pink head. She shifted on her knees and licked her lips, so impatient to taste him she had to force herself to finish the task of untangling his shorts from his feet.

“Think he’s gone?” she asked Elvis as he stroked back her hair in anticipation, spreading his feet to get a stance that didn’t make him knock his knees and crumple at the first throat tickle she gave him.

“Awful quiet.” he shrugged, a whimper caught in his throat as Elaine shifted closer on the hard tile and peppered his stomach with kisses, kneading those handles of his on his fleshy hips and nuzzling the little crease he’d begun to show where he’d once been cut and firm. Her tongue darted out and traced those lines lovingly and the way she held him so firmly to her attentions and the sweet arch of her back beneath the spray convinced him to view such things a little gentler, a little less obnoxious while his Tink’s mouth was worshiping them so gently.

Down she went, lovingly nuzzling and licking a path across his creases and up his thighs, nosing as his balls and rubbing her cheek against him before opening her mouth and letting Elvis guide his throbbing length onto her tongue. He clasped her head and started a rhythm, a gentle and steady pump to the back of her throat which she knew by heart, and when the cadence had been perfected he let her be and grabbed the shampoo and lathered his own hair before tipping his head back in the water and washing the suds out. Then he poured out a dollop again and, rubbing it between his hands, began to massage it through her locks, lovingly swiping any run-off away from her eyes and swirling hypnotizing little circles into her scalp.

That made her moan. It sent the damndest spark to his very toes and he thrust in harder, hissing and smiling down at her. She was smiling back -around a mouthful of cock. And she looked so pretty doing it, there wasn’t a sweeter or lovelier face to be found when she was hollowing her cheeks and stretching her lips and batting her sparkly eyes. Savoring the feel of a man’s meaty weight in her mouth, letting him gag her with aplomb. The suds squished under his grasp as lewdly as the slurping sounds Elaine made when her gasps grew short and she tried to sneak in a breath or two between his thrusts.

“Hell laney, you’re prettier than you ever been.” he realized with his chest fit to burst from love for her, her and the way she massaged his thick sides and the way she always smiled when sucking cock. The way she blew the Colonel's roof off over a point of honor, “How’d I ever get so lucky.” he muttered, realizing suddenly that she reminded him of those early days, before the babies -any of the babies- back when she was toned and lanky and bare faced. She had the prettiest smattering of freckles when her makeup was gone, he swiped the shower spray from off them.

She looked a girl again, the girl who gave herself to him for safe keeping.

She was trailing one hand down her stomach, flat and firm again, and down and down till she was playing with herself, he could tell by the way her arm moved in time with her head. He rubbed at her scalp again.

Another moan. His toes curl. His spine ran like hot lava.

It had been three years since…a baby. That would account for the toned and lean look, he had a sudden epiphany. Felt a fool for it immediately after.

It maybe wasn’t what they wanted but something a little feral and fond flooded his chest at this old Tink. Something told him to marvel at her, marvel at her like he had in her soaked kaftan at the beach. He had a beautiful wife. Damn stunning and he just -he didn’t see her enough, he felt. Odd, that.

“Laney, laney, hold up.” Elvis tapped her jaw and pulled her off him, chuckling as she wheezed in a breath, spit and precum sputtering thick and shiny off her lips and caught herself against the slick tile wall as if she had sparks in her eyes.

“What baby?” she gasped with eagerness, playing with the suds on her breasts and looking up at him coyley, knowing that tone meant her man had a notion up his sleeve. Probably a dirty one.

“I-I-I w-wanna, I-I wanna see you.” he begged and when she still looked lost he clarified, “I w-w-wanna w-watch ya p-play wi’yeself.”

Elaine’s face flushed crimson in pleased gratification at his adoring tone and with one last look of skepticism at his bobbing and visibly pulsing cock, asked with soft eagerness, “How’d’ya want me, daddy?”

Oh lord, it had been awhile since they played this game and his heart skipped a beat in anticipation. “Want ya to lay down on the tile, baby,” he instructed and watched as she sank back on her haunches without argument, slowly spreading her legs and scooting down until she was laying amongst the swirling suds, “Now, I-I-I w-want ya to spread your legs, baby, nice and wide f’me.”

Elaine did as asked, her hair swirling out in the eddy of water, her belly a canvass of sprinkles, letting her right foot push into the encroaching shower curtain a little, feeling a draft of the cold outside air rush in. “Like this?” she asked, her mouth dry from the sight of his bulk standing in a straddle above her.

“Jus’ like that.” he nodded down at her, his eyes darting all across her beautiful shiny self as the spray pelted down on her after breaking across his body, “Now this next part’s important to get right, Tink. Ya gonna be a good widdle bitty f’me, ain’t ya?”

“Yes daddy, I’d do anything for you, anything at all!” her voice rose.

“Then you spread those pretty pussy lips for me,” Elvis directed, “wanna see your itty bitty rosebud, gonna let the water do the teasin’ for us. Wanna see ya cum from the drip.”

Elaine did as she was told and stretched her labia, sucking in a breath as a small jet of water landed on her teased vagina. “Ooh, l-like this?” she hoped, sucking at her lip, trying to get on top of the teasing sensation.

“Fuuuck yeah, oh fuck, ‘xactly like that.” Elvis’ eyes were glued to her wobbling little petals, battered beneath the shower stream as he began to strip his cock with cruel, tight jerks of his wrist. Elaine nuzzled his ankle and glued her own eyes to his heavy sack, swinging above her in perfect view as it tightened up, guarded by those delicious, meaty thighs and her mouth hung open in craving. A drop of water ran off his heavy balls and landed on her forehead. “Oh Laney, you’re just perfect honey, jus’ perfect.” he praised. “It feel good?”

She was pretty sure if they kept this up he’d be spouting down on her face in a matter of seconds. “Yeah, it really does.” She craned her head back and stuck her tongue out in optimism.

—————-

Back in the kitchen a disgruntled Jack wandered into the little gathering of his siblings who were eagerly dishing out advice and praise to Ella as she capably flipped decently fluffy pancakes and stacked them onto a steaming plate.

“There, that should do for a start.” she declared and even Jesse and his ever growing appetite assented as he set the kitchen table with forks.

“Rosalee.” Jack sidled up to the auburn haired little girl trying to make a swan out of the paper towel Jesse had laid down as her napkin.

“Yeah, Jack?”

“Daddy said he’s gonna take us swimmin’.” he lied with the most guileless tone, “You wanna come?”

It was a calculated move, and a stunt Jack had pulled often to back up his own devices regarding monopolizing Elaine.

Rosalee went nowhere without her father and everywhere that her father did go, she went. And Jack knew this. She had meltdowns when she was escorted off sets and had meltdowns when she arrived at sets to find him holding his young co-stars instead of her. Jealous and sensitive, there was nothing more precious to her than time with daddy and at this news of an impromptu frolic, Rosalee clambered off her barstool so quickly she nearly split her head open.

“What are you up to, Jacky?” Nine years old with a head twice older, Jesse was onto him and stared his towheaded brother down with slanted gray eyes, “How is it daddy’s takin’ ya to the ocean when he’s washing the ocean off him as we speak? Don’t sound like somethin’ he’d do before going back. Waste a’time.”

“I’m just bearin’ the news.” Jack held up his hands, “It’s what he done told me.”

“But daddy’s gotta sleep, Jack!” Ella protested, always so keenly aware of her father’s irregularities and fiercely protective of his health.

“Ooooh leave off, he promised!” Rosalee whooped in joy and tore back towards the master bedroom with a maniacally gleeful Jack following on her heels.

Ella dropped the pancake plate onto the tabletop with a thump and Daisy immediately grabbed her fork and skewered four at once.

“Where y’all goin’?” Jesse cried out after trying to get a pancake of his own, abandoning it in favor of running down his two rogue little siblings who were about to start banging at the bathroom door like they had a death wish.

——————

Inside the shower Elvis felt his climax hit him like a freight train and bracing himself with one hand on the tiled wall, he watched with flitting eyes as his thick ropes of come joined the water shower to spatter across Laney’s chest and then down to the pattering of the stream against her pink house, then back up again. His thighs quaked and his belly shook and he kept stripping himself as wave after wave took over him from the sight of her down there, looking up at him with a pleasured grimace as the jetstream wiggled her nub. She had to be close, he could tell from the lines on her forehead and he managed to lift his foot and press it gently on her lower belly, jostling her womb like he did with his hand when he was inside. Her toes curled.

“Ya almost there, ain’t ya pretty girl?” he gasped, his own toes curling as lil Elvis didn’t seem content to flag after one shot alone, still standing stiff and interested in the proceedings below him. Elvis’ hand started to cramp.

“Elvis-“ her pretty pink tongue came out and touched her upper lip, her breasts jiggling with every big heave of breath.

Just then a round of knocks sounded on the door and if Elvis was any judge of distance -and he was a good one- he’d wager they were coming from someone about three feet off the ground and blonde as satan himself. “Not yet!” he barked, well past being patient.

“Elvis!” Elaine fretted below him, so close her eyes looked scared from desire. “I’m -“

“That’s it, that’s it you just take your time and feel it, sugar pie, that’s it.” he cooed to her and stepped over her, turning round in between her legs and running his foot further down, pressing on her little mound and after observing her hesitant moan, slipped his big toe along her soft seam.

The way her legs snapped closed like a trap spurred him on, as did her happy gasp as she thrashed and gripped at her chest like she was trying to hurt herself with the squeeze. He wiggled his toe in further, snagging her lil hole and plunging in, his leg shimmying in that controlled way he’d perfected on stage and she shrieked, happily, he was sure, except Jack didn’t know that-

“Mama I know you’re in there!” He demanded from behind the door, driven to outrage by neglect.

Laney was gorgeous when she was coming, and while often a moaner in the moments leading up to it -when propriety allowed- she was a silent screamer in the throes of it. Elvis kept up the merciless jimmying of his leg all the way through it and watched with distinct enjoyment a sight he rarely got to see from this removed vantage point. Caught in the vice grip of pleasure Elaine couldn’t humor her little brat any more than she could call on Jesus for help and Elvis just smirked down at her evilly as he kept the stimulation up. Kept it up until he was getting kicked in the gut by an overwhelmed wife.

The faucet stabbed his back as he stumbled backwards, laughing those hiccuping laughs of his and jostling his throbbing balls in one hand as Elaine cupped her mouth and tried to get her breath back. “You ok?” Elvis giggled as he knelt down and crawled over her to cup her wet cheek and bring her back down to earth. She was giggling herself, unable to voice anything but giving him a thumbs up to assure she was ok. He smooched her cheek vigorously.

“You’re still-“ she tried to form a full sentence but couldn’t.

“Those diet pills.” he whispered in explanation, gingerly still stroking his hard cock but over-sensitive cock. “It won’t go down, Laney.” he whined a little as he humped her slick belly, conscious that this was a lil pathetic to do on the shower floor but this is what he missed, moments like these where they could trust each other with all of it. He couldn’t stop himself now just to make it a little less animalistic, a little less needy. Truth was he needed her terribly and he didn’t mind her knowing.

Elaine’s hands came up and clung to the backs of his meaty thighs, as high as she could reach over his hips and she begged in a hoarse whisper that underscored the way her eyes were heavy and half mast “Sit, please, sit on my face, Daddy. Wanna taste you, I’ll get ya drained.”

She’d seen the chafed markings on her little friend from all the tucking and taping the wardrobe department had put him through, she’d tended to them with Vaseline and kissed the booboos goodnight. From the way she had her mouth open and her chin tipped back -Elvis knew what his wife wanted and with a weak moan he crawled over her again and at her insistent hands, turned back around till they faced the same way.

69ing he’d heard it called from a co-star. A filthy sorta indulgence that his ingenious wife had discovered on her own without the benefit of co-star gossip or ‘new wife’ magazines. “Gosh yes, yes that’s it, smother me baby, you're a hunk like this you know?” She gushed, gripping his hips firmly.

“Mama?” got yelled through the door along with another knock and a small racket as if there were reinforcements approaching -wether for Elvis’ cause or Jack’s, was yet to be seen.

“Go eat your pancakes!” Elvis hollered over the noise of shower spray.

“I need mama to cut them up!” Trouble hollered right back and Elvis looked down to see his fair temptress waiver at the sound of her son’s dire plight.

“Oh no, no you don’t, don’t even think it.” Elvis corrected her as he settled over her, a hefty thigh on each side of her face trapping her where he needed her, hard tile and grout lines digging at his knees. He patted at her belly and rubbed her hips as he stared ahead at the wall and slowly, almost apologetically, lowered his package over her sweet face. One ball slotted into her waiting mouth perfectly, aided by her eager little hands as she snuggled it onto her waiting tongue and with a contented grunt he muttered, “All you need to think about right now, my lil Tinkerbell, is how full and stuffed your lil mouth is with daddy’s sugar plums, how nice he is to give ya a treat n’how good you’re lil mouth is gonna make daddy feel, so good I just might kiss your lil kitty in thanks.”

Laney always got a little woozy when he didn’t give her a choice, told him it made her feel like goo inside and like she was a baby again -not in a bad way, mind. She loved it and he capitalized on it on occasions like this. After years together he’d come to understand she enjoyed a little sternness so long as he mixed it with affirmations and gentleness after. Something his younger and randy self may have been pitifully short on in his eagerness to sample her. So Elvis found himself able to squash the shame of teabagging his wife in the shower rather speedily, the obvious and untampered joy she took in the act helping him, as well as the feel of her rolling the damn things, one at a time due to size, in her mouth like his nuts were a Listerine swish.

How someone could enjoy gargling ballsack or having their noses smashed to an asshole was a little beyond Elvis, but when he said as much to her, Tink had told him she didn’t get how he could eat bloody pussy for hours.

After arguing this they had to call a truce. No accounting for taste. And since then, as a treat, Laney gets to suck his balls with the only addendum being she can’t lick his ass.

Never stops her from kneading it though, digging at the plain globes with her nails and pulling it apart -for his sanity’s sake he likes to assume she spreads it so she can get some air down there. He wishes he didn’t like that feeling as much as he does but hunched over her in the shower he has to admit the stretch of it feels rather good, combined with her suckling his sack. Little Elvis begins to pulse like he gets the memo. The better it gets, the greater the sensation becomes, the more he moans and shifts and bends double till he’s biting her thigh to keep quiet. In doing so he stops sheltering her little house from the spray with his shoulders, and with malevolent delight, he notices her jerk from the water jet.

It’s fun to watch from down here, her pretty pink petals getting battered and he adds his tongue into the mix on occasion and she thrashes and screams around his balls and he keeps his thighs locked against her cheeks, muffling it almost completely. He’s missed this, not just the filthy want for each other but -but the selfishness to do it. Sure he had been a cad in their earlier marriage, using her more like an animated glory hole than a cherished child of God, but they’d both trade the exhausted lassitude of the past year for that rigorous idiocy in a heartbeat. There’s gotta be some middle ground. He just can’t come up with the right balance with Tink mouthing at his balls like a feral harmonica player tearing up the riff to Orange Blossom Special.

“Daddy! Daddy when are you takin’ us swimmin?” That’s Rosalee’s voice, coming through the door and Elvis’ heart thuds to a stop for a moment in complete confusion as to why his lil pet expects that of him this morning, “I’ve been waitin’ patiently! Please daddy!”

She’s been waiting, by the door, this whole damn time while Jack’s been doing his regular, moronic behavior. She has been good. And somehow there’s been a mix up. He’s had little enough time to play with the kids on this set and Rosalee always takes that absence the hardest. The tile is unyielding beneath his knees and his resolve waivers.

“Oh sweetie I-I-“ he brings his fist up to his mouth to try to steady his wrecked voice, “sweetie I didn’t say nothin about that, did I?”

Elaine, callous succubus that she is, ignores his fatherly plight and begins to strip the base of little Elvis like it’s gonna spurt pixie dust for her. He falls down a little more in his kneeling posture from the intensity of it, forehead banging against her shin as he claws at the slippery grout lines.

“Jack said you promised to take us swimmin!” Rosalee sounds close to tears and it makes Elvis plan on wringing Jack’s little neck while the desperate need to cum rattles in Elvis' head until he’s humping Elaine’s mouth like a maniac. She digs in harder and he hides a sob as a cough.

Angrily he peels her pussy wider and let’s the jets sting her little nub, locking his legs resolutely against her cries until he sees a stream going in the opposite direction of the shower flow, a pretty little arc of fluid straight from her pussy and if it weren’t so diluted by the shower he’d know it tastes perfectly salty sweet. Satisfied with his revenge he covers her again with his back and lays his face on the tile between her legs, trusting her to either let him get up and console his poor daughter or else finish him fast.

Going with the first option becomes entirely necessary when he hears the door crack open and a cold gust of air rustles the shower curtain.

Panic gives Elvis’ voice a thunderous edge as he shouts:“The hell are you doin’? Don’t you dare open the curtain, don’t do it! Do not!”

“Oh daddy please don’t hit me!” Rosalee wails this idiotic plea like it’s a line from some dramatic afternoon Soap Opera, and Elvis is quite sure that’s where she learned it.

“Oh, s-s-stop the d-d-dramatics!” he begs, half to his children and half to Laney who seems convinced he can come from ball sucking alone, while he’s quite sure he can’t today.

“You promised!” Rosalee continues crying, very near the shower but not touching the curtain.

“Jack!” Elvis' voice thunders shakily.

“Yes Elvis?” the kid replies very calmly from the sink area.

“G-get out! Both of ya- get out.”

“I just wanted to take a bath with you!” Rosalee stays from sheer horror at having provoked such temper from her ever-loving father, “I’m sorry daddy! I-I-I didn’t mean to make you mad, honest I didn’t! Jack said-“

“Guys, what the- come on, get out!” That’s Jesse’s beautiful voice resounding in the bathroom, sounding like a general at nine years old and Elvis is gonna have to buy the kid another motorcycle for always being such a swell fella in times of need.

“But Daddy promised to take us swimming-“

“Guys out!” Jesse grabs ahold of Jack’s tshirt and starts tugging.

“But swimming-“

“Only Mommy’s and Daddy’s swim in showers, sometimes-“ Jesse insists.

“I just came to tell mama that Ella has caught the stove on fire-“

“Jack, liars go to hell.” Jesse reminds.

Elvis realizes then that maybe his thighs are squishing all the sound from Laney’s hearing and that perhaps she’s just coasting while enjoying her favorite hobby, unaware of exactly how nuts it’s gotten in here. Nuts was a bad word for it but- he starts to pull himself off her only to feel her teeth snap in protest at the thin base of his scrotum.

He can’t help his yelped,

“Laney!” that in turn spurs Jesse onto a frantic beg,

“Kids come on! Really, we need to evacuate now!” The poor boy sounds frantic and Elvis wishes he had the moral fiber to get off his wife’s face this close to the finish line. But he doesn’t, not for Jack, not even for Rosalee and any other sweet idiot spawn who didn’t obey the closed door policy.

This isn’t the first time.

Hovering as he is, balls clamped in a toothy prison, it’s like Elaine finally hears it all, processes her children and their proximity, finally gets it without the soundproof padding of Elvis’ thighs. She responds accordingly. Instead of abandoning their tryst as he expected, like a ninja geisha, she simultaneously grabs his cock and bends him backwards between his cheeks into her mouth, while raising her foot for Elvis to muffle his impending scream around some perfectly manicured toes.

To a chorus of wailing youngsters and one very admanet eldest son who sounds like a shell-shocked veteran encouraging the green troops to pull back, Elvis feels the persuasive suction of Laney’s mouth around his throbbing head, a flick or five to his weeping slit and he’s giving into her efforts, biting her toe to keep silent and smacking at the shower curtain in an attempt to stifle the need to move with his release.

Elvis shakes to the floor with an exhausted splat as his orgasmic loss of reality gives him a blissful five seconds of escapism where he lays, cheek down in the swirling shower drain, thanking Jesus and God and the Holy Spirit for his wife.

Elaine surfaces from beneath him with the invigorated gusto of a woman satisfied with her work, pulling herself out from beneath her man’s inert form only to be hit by a toy whale that’s been hurled over the curtain and onto her wet head -a last little defiance by a growling Jack who is getting tugged out by Jesse. An impressive throw, one Elvis is responsible for helping Jack perfect with the football many a summer’s night on Graceland’s lawn.

“Oh you silly thing!” she shouts with a laugh, “If any of you sprites are still in here, make yourselves useful, hand me those towels on the countertop.” she adds as she leans over Elvis, straddling him to turn off the tap, sticking just her hand out the curtain and making grabby motions with her fingers till the feel of fuzzy cotton meets it. “Thanks, sweets.”

“Why’re you so short mama?” Rosalee’s voice asks and Elvis groans beneath her on the floor.

“Cause I’ve been playing with sea creatures.” she explains without missing a beat and Elvis’ slick back starts heaving beneath her from suppressing his laughter.

“Oh.” Rosalee accepts it with a sniffle, having spent many hours in the tub or hot tub on her knees, the better to help her toys swim around.

Elvis rolls over beneath Elaine’s straddle and smiles at her with eyes still crossed from going to the grown man’s neverland. “Alright Rosalee, you run on now we’ll be out in just a minute. Promise.” he speaks up.

“And swimming?” she begs as she retreats.

“Well, uh, we’ll talk about that over breakfast.”

Elaine makes a sad face at the realization he’s not going to let himself go back to bed after causing so much heartache in their little people. “S’ok.” he insists, reading her mind and patting her thighs.

Hearing the latch click and the silence of privacy restored, Elvis clasps her by her neck and brings her face down to his, kissing her passionately, licking at her tongue and the traces of his spend on it. “You sure know how to love a man, Tink.” he murmurs, clinging to her warm body as the shower tile turns cold.

“All I ever wanted was to learn to be the best for ya.” she whispers, sweet and gentle.

“Born the best.” he insists, “The rest was just…a bonus.”

She brings the towels she’s been balancing out of the wet, onto his chest, and sitting up they rub each other dry, soft smiles and drowsy affection making them clumsy and open.

They stagger upright together and Elvis throws his towel around her and she throws hers around him and they’re cocooned in terry cloth this way, standing in the dripping shower, snuggled together and nipping at each other’s lips.

“How’s my lil friend.” she asks, sneaking a hand between them in the damp warmth of their burrow and cupping his harmless, shrunk little appendage.

“He’s good, he’s real good.” Elvis giggles, his cheeks turning pink, “Gentle with him now, he got wrung out by a cruel, lecherous gal.”

“He sure did.” Elaine grunts satisfactorily and it’s the most masculine sorta sound Elvis has ever heard her make, full of smugness and a dirty, gritty edge he can’t quite believe came out of his woman, his woman who is so polished and elegant most times. As if to underscore this departure from demure normality and diminish it all at once, Elvis feels her hand move again beneath the towel before an electrifying sting slices up his spine and down his leg from his freshly smacked ass.

“Laney!” he cries again, utterly aghast and pink as a baby and she can’t stand it anymore, standing on tippy toes to neck him some more, vigeorusly smashing her lips to his as she yanks the shower curtain open with her free hand

She steps out while Elvis lingers and bends down to retrieve Jack’s sodden whale plushie. He may wring the poor creature out more violently than necessary but it makes his wife titter.

“God! - I love you.” she insists, surveying her man as he steps out, his wet hair dripping in a boyish mop down his forehead and his lips kissed and bitten puffy pink and his cheeks bunched in a grin despite their bashful blush and the soft accumulation of fluff and good living filling out his chest and swelling his belly just that little bit. “Sometimes I think it’s gonna kill me, gettin’ to enjoy you, getting to look at you so much. Feels indulgent somehow, like you oughta be rationed to a gal, the same way you’re dosed out to your fans in little bits, one movie a time.” she laughs at her own silliness and he shakes his head shyly as he tucks his towel into a covering around his waist. “One day they’ll find me keeled over from palpitations brought on by starin’ too long.”

“That’s what the obituary’ll say,” Elvis snarks, “but you and I’ll know the truth of the matter, that you’re a lil squirrel who likes her nuts so much she don’t take time to breathe. Mark my words, that’s how you’ll go if you keep this appetite up.”

“Then I hope they accuse ya of manslaughter, right after.” Laney grins and he stalls with his comb in hand, raised to coiff his hair back, waiting for the punchline, “Because I don’t wanna be up there without you for too long.”

“Laney!” he repeats for the upteenth time this morning, but this time it’s hushed and his lower lip wobbles with emotion and his eyes swim, touched by the sentiment. Clearing his throat he adds, “I still wanna uh, sometime -yeah, uh sometime do that thing you were t-t-talking about in the w-water.”

She makes a puzzled face as she wiggles into a tiny pair of shorts Elvis bought her last month. She’s fit as hell, and he’s envious of it, and has to admit Jack’s overdue weening did serve one purpose at least, it thinned her out like nothin’ else coulda.

“Play handyman or-or whatever.” he blushes and turns his face away as he hangs up his towel, aware that they haven’t the time to linger over this with the kitchen possibly on fire and his children eager for a swim. “Ya recall? -what you were sayin’? Me uh, playin’ a handyman or plumber or, uh, whatever. Come visit ya.”

“Oooh that,” she goads playfully wrapping her arms around his belly once more, chin in his shoulder blades, “you wanna swing by Graceland and fix a pipe or two, find the rich and spoiled Mrs. Presley wasting away in her gold cage, rich but wanting in the worst ways? Hmm?” she runs her finger down the shell of his ear and it’s flaming hot to her touch, he must be red as her nails in the face, “Wanna take her on the table and give her what her posh movie star husband can’t? Wanna do that, huh Naughty?”

“God y-yes.” he stutters, head thunking against the wall in desperation at the mere

concept.

“Wanna make a movie of it,” she whispers into his ear, “like those ones Thumper and I made? Wanna make a movie so Elvis Presley has to sit and watch it later, hmm? Watch his wife get taken by a workin’ man?”

“Nghhh…” he growls smacking the wall, overwhelmed by memories and prospects.

“I see, well, that’s settled then.” Elaine murmurs before stepping away from their embrace, flicking his bare butt one last time as she laughs, “Only you would get the hots for cuckolding yourself.”

“Anything involving rearrangin’ your guts on a table gets me hot.” he mumbles defensively and Elaine smirkes at him with a promise in her eyes as she makes her way past him. He snags her back to him briefly by a finger in her back pocket, “Hey you,” he says adently with his hand cupping her jaw, “I love you too. I love you somethin’ fierce.”

~~~~~

“Daisy!” Jack’s voice warbled with betrayal as he entered the kitchen, “You didn’t!”

“Daisy!” Ella chimed in, whirling around from the stove to survey the kitchen table and her demolished stack of pancakes, “There was enough there to feed uncle Jerry and us besides!” she cried out as her little sister swallowed down the last of her syrupy goodness with a shrug,

“Oh, oh Daisy, oh my, that’s gonna -that’s gonna bite ya later.” Jesse sighed as he pulled up a chair and pushed around his abandoned, now cold and half eaten single pancake on his plate. “Your stomach’s gonna kill ya, Mae Mae.” he explained to a remorseless Daisy Mae.

“I was hungry.” she defends as Rosalee sullenly takes a seat next to her twin, “Sorry Rosalee, I shoulda saved one for ya.” she conceded but Rosalee shook her head.

“I don’t feel like eatin’ anything.” Rosalee moped.

“Why not?” Ella turned again from the stove, affronted for the reputation of her irresistible pancakes. “I’ll put blueberries in them and everything for ya!”

“I’m not hungry!” Rosalee repeated close to tears and her little chestnut bob swayed with her head shake.

“What happened to you?” Daisy grunted.

“Daddy got mad at me.” she whimpered.

“No he didn’t.” Jesse sighs, settling Jack into a seat by the scruff of his t-shirt, “He’d just told y’all not to come in and you disobeyed. He ain’t mad. He’ll be right as rain in a minute, hold tight.”

“He sounded mad! He sounded sad!” Rosalee’s tone grew in emphasis.

Jesse pinched the bridge of his nose and stared at his empty plate as Rosalee’s whimpers grew from just that to outright crying. “No, no look it’s-“ he glanced over at the stove to his twin who was industriously cooking another batch but not fast enough to circumvent Rosalee’ meltdown, “it’s like, when we all used to sleep in the big bed,” he chose his words carefully for optimal grief assuagement, “you know how some mornings you thought daddy was cryin’?”

“Yeah.” her little voice was garbled by snot.

“Yeah but he wasn’t, was he?” Jesse pressed his point, “He was just tryin’ to hold in his laughs so he didn’t wake you, while mama or Ella was ticklin’ him.”

“Yeah.” Rosalee cracks a small smile.

“S’like that.” Jesse reminded, “He ain’t sad. You ‘member how he’d start bawling when we started ticklin’ too?”

“Yeah.” Jack smiled in reminiscence of mornings when they’d all pile on top of Elvis and tickle him while Mama held his shoulders down. “But I know you don’t tickle people in the shower.” Jack fired back with six year old conviction, “Elvis hisself told me it wasn’t safe.”

Before Jesse was forced to choose between explaining further or else sullying his daddy’s reputation for safety ethics in the shower -or in general- the man himself and Mama breezed through the door, hair wet and as smartly dressed as always.

“Alright, alright, kids what’s groovin’ huh?” Elvis barreled in like his kitchen was his stage and topics of tickling and sadness were shelved, much to Jesse’s watery eyed relief, though he couldn’t quite meet his mama’s eyes when she scootched past him with a kiss to his head on her way to the sink. “Hey you I’ve got a present for you.” Elvis addressed Jack before plopping a very sudden and deformed whale plushie on the boy’s plate.

“Thanks a lot Elvis.” Jack muttered.

“Look on the bright side Trouble,” Elvis laughed while reaching down Jack’s back to grab a handful of his jean’s waistband, “all ya had to do was wait fifteen minutes and now mama’s got your glass o’water and your pancakes’ll be cut in triangles. Imagine that, patience.” and with that laughing admonition Elvis hefted Jack out of his chair by his waistband and proceeded to jostle his second born son in the age old manner often referred to as a wedgie. It even made Rosalee laugh and Jack hiccup from something they all suspected was enjoyment, although the kid would never admit it. “Alright, everyone alive and well? No fires?” He took stock of the place and found it comparatively tidy -little wonder as the kids didn’t have time to wreck anything, too busy knocking on his door. “Ella Bug those smell amazing and- Daisy, why’re you actin’ put out?”

“M’fine.” his daughter protested even as her face was folded into the identical sorta scowl that sold him a lotta records back in the early days.

“Is everyone mad at me?” he balked.

“No, she just ate fifty pancakes while everyone else was… busy.” Jesse cleared his throat. “Should enter her in a contest.”

“Oh Daisy, no!” Elaine swiped back her black curls and knelt by her, “Is your belly hurting?”

“Startin’ to.” Daisy was forced to admit through clenched teeth.

“Lordy, Mae Mae, that’s impressive,” Elvis murmured as he took his seat and, in a well worn routine, opened his arms and lap in welcome to a still sniffling Rosalee who catapulted into him, “what got into you?” he marveled as he tucked Rosalee into a snuggle and peppered her now glowing face with kisses.

“They were very good.” Daisy insisted and Ella beamed with pride over the stack of freshly made ones she carried to the table.

“Bet they were.” Elvis praised, tongue poked through his teeth laughing, “Glad ya enjoyed yourself at least.”

“Come lay down sweetheart, here on the couch.” Elaine led her to the adjacent wicker lounge. “Get you some ginger ale or something. Heavens, girly, the appetite on you!”

“Are you gonna eat with us, daddy?” Ella spoke up timidly as she took her own seat, the rather novel concept of her daddy at morning breakfast and the pride she took in her own cooking warring to make his verdict overly meaningful to her.

Elvis stared for a moment at the heaping piles of fluffy goodness with its melting pad of butter and sparkling syrup trickling to the plate as Jack voiced the very worry he had rattling in his head:

“That’s a lotta carbs.”

The whole table’s racket of pancake stabbing screeched to a halt and Elaine fumbled the glass bottle of ginger ale she had retrieved from the fridge to the very ground in her shock. “Jack!” she chatsized with more vehemence than the little stinker had ever elicited from her in his life, “Why on earth would you say a thing like that?”

Jack shrugged, although the combined weight of his family’s horror and Elaine’s blazing eyes made him timid, “It's just what the Colonel said. Last night. To daddy.”

“And why would you ever wanna sound like that good for nothin’ scallywag?” Elaine cried, “We appreciate a good appetite in this house, plenty of folks don’t have what we’ve got and we’re not about to thank the good Lord for his generosity to us by listenin’ to the worn out gimmicks of a corpulent glutton. Carbs! Maybe he should count some carbs-“

“Laney, laney.” Elvis moderated her with a shushing wave of his hand and she stilled, pinching the bridge of her nose in that way Jesse had learned from her and clipping over to Daisy with grief stricken eyes she hid behind her ire.

“Sorry.” Jack croaked while giving his mother the stink eye even as Jesse in turn glared at him, “I said I was sorry?”

“There’s nothin’ to be sorry about Jack.” Elvis insisted, eyeing his strangely cold wife as she tended to Daisy and got her a preemptive barf pan. “You were just statin’ nutritional facts and if you’re gonna be a scientist one day, your interest in ‘em will serve ya well. Now Ella, dish me up some a’those sticky carbs, won’t ya?”

Ella beamed and quickly stacked up a steaming pile on her daddy’s plate, presenting a blushing cheek for his kiss just as Daisy lost her battle with the bellyache and puked into the bowl Elaine held for her.

“Well that’s an appetizing sound.” Jesse pushed his plate away with a joking grimace and he and Elvis shared a silly moment that almost made Jesse forget about the shower and his subsequent vow never to look his daddy in the eye again.

“Poor Mae, Mae,” Elvis sighed, stabbing his pancake and making a show of chewing it obnoxiously for Ella’s benefit.

Elaine couldn’t help but smirk, even as she dabbed at Daisy’s mouth with a cloth, amused that her man was moaning louder over pancakes than he did from her attentions in the shower.

“So,” he spoke up as he scarfed them down, “what’s this about swimmin’? Hmm? For the record I never promised anythin’ of the kind but, loathe as I am to award bad behavior,” and here he gave Jack a pointed look over his poised fork, “since we’re all together, why not?”

“Really? Really?” Rosalee screamed so loud in his ear he shook his head just to get the ringing out.

“Oh daddy, it’s gonna be so fun! You there! Oh yes yes yes yes!” Ella was spinning in circles, having gotten out of her chair at some point to celebrate.

“Mhmm,” he hushed them and went on, pushing his plate away, “is it swimmin’ you’ve really got your hearts set on?”

“Well, no- we just wanna be with you.” Rosalee admitted.

“What? No! We wanna go swimmin’, just us and mama-“

“Jack, please hush up.” Jesse begged.

“See I was thinkin’,” Elvis rose above his six year old’s sharp remarks, “we could certainly go swimmin’ but then again, ya can go swimmin’ most anytime, near anywhere. But ya know what ya can’t do?”

“What, daddy?” a hushed chorus of anticipation went up from his little audience, even Daisy showed interest as Elaine doted on her.

“How would you Tiddlywinks like to fly ‘round in a helicopter?” He asked with a brilliant grin.

“No way!” Jesse nearley fell out of his seat and his eyes filled with excitement.

“Yes way, perks of the job, boyo.” Elvis sat smug at the head of his table as his children gushed around him in a frenzy of anticipation, Elaine watched their adoration with a pleased smile, praying only that he wasn’t going to be the lone pilot. “Now who’s glad daddy works for that ‘corpulent scalliwag’, huh?” he goaded and Elaine’s smile turned brittle as the kids laughed and cheered.

Elvis eyes met hers above the den of kids clearing plates and his sober, cobalt stare put her right back in her place, a place that more and more had little or nothing to do with his creative processes and business deals - a far cry from the production and artistry that first brought them to together. She bit her lip and walked the vomit pan back to the sink, receiving a wide berth from the little revelers as she did. “Alright well, help your mama with this mess and get yourselves sorted.” he clapped, “We’ll leave, soon as we’re ready. Gotta go brush my teeth.” he rose from the table, his hasty exit unnoticed by any save Elaine who postured herself to be in his path as he turned to go into the master bedroom,

“E,” she murmured softly as he brushed past and he didn’t stop, but she knew he was listening by the tilt of his head as he went “while you’re at it, be sure you don’t accidentally brush your tonsils again, silly man.”

This loaded tease met with a titter of laughs by the couple clueless kids who overheard it and this time it was Elvis’ face that grew brittle, his step halted and his lip was close to sneering as he lowly rejoined,

“If you know ‘nother silly man who can get you a helicopter ride, an all expenses paid for vacation to Hawaii and satisfy your particular tastes, then be my guest Elaine, you tell him how to brush his teeth.”

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.

If you’d like to be tagged in this particular series please drop a note below. I’ll admit I’m disorganized and have trouble keeping all the requests sorted when they’re scattered, what I do check regularly are the requests in the notes for chapters -and I do manage to get those added. So, if you’ve put in a request and I’ve failed ya, or if you’re new and would like to be added, please pop a note below. Xoxo

Taglist:

@eliseinmemphis

@prompted-wordsmith

@ab4eva

@foreverdolly

@powerofelvis

@butlersxbirdy

@crash-and-cure

@elvisabutler

@heartbrake-hotel

@stylespresleyhearted

@thatbanditqueen

@crazymadpassionatelove

@myradiaz

@ash-omalley

@arianatheangelgirl

@steph-speaks

@burningloverdoll

@angelface-555

@lookingforrainbows

@missmaywemeetagain

@coolgirl462

@kingdomforapony

@18lkpeters

@richardslady121

@from-memphis-with-love

@lillypink

@artlover8992

@pennyroyalcreep

@notstefaniepresley

@ellie-24

@renaissingle

@waiting4brucewayne2adoptme

@presleyenterprise

@marriedtopresley

@ashtag2887

@dkayfixates

@vampireindistress

@ashtag6887

@i-r-i-n-a-a

@obsessedvibee

@peskybedtime

@goth-cowgirl-03

@stephthestallion

@fav-fanficssss

@loving-elvis

@honeyorangess

[precious-little-scoundrel]

What flower are you? Quiz

These fun/silly results awoke the inner Victorian in me and I thought it would be fun to share. No pressure tags and a hearty welcome to any who want to join in: @butlersxbirdy @ab4eva @aemondsbabe @sansas-amythest-hairnet @prompted-wordsmith @arabellasleopardcoat @missmaywemeetagain @thatbanditqueen @from-memphis-with-love @lookingforrainbows @foreverdolly @eliseinmemphis @stylespresleyhearted @ellie-24

My results:

[babylovepresley]

i am severely emotionally attatched to the pink scarf series