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You’ve been together almost six months at this point, and it was mostly going swimmingly. You had, when meeting him, been surprised at the speed at which he moved; he’d picked you up from the diner where you were working to save a little money before college - though you’d graduated well over a year ago now - met your parents, and moved you into his home all in the span of about five weeks. You’d spent two of those weeks shell-shocked that the man sending you pretty gifts, picking you up from work and taking you out to dinner was Elvis Presley. You’d wanted a poster of him in your room since you were in the sixth grade, but your mother had never allowed it. She couldn’t, however, stop you from using your allowance to buy as many of his soundtrack albums you could get your hands on, or demanding you went to see them in the pictures, regardless of their critical response or whether she claimed they were unsuitable watching.
It had been, sitting at the dinner table with your parents, difficult to reconcile the fact that he wasn’t a reflection from your new colour television set, he was actually there. Elvis Presley. In your little dining room, dressed as sharply as ever if not more demurely than you tended to see him - a single glinting ring on his pinky finger was the only concession to his usual image. Elvis Presley. Only in your house to get what he came for, fulfil his promise to you that he was gonna, “Take you home, show off my pretty lil’ thing, play house with you, baby, come on let me take you home.”
You still had no idea how he’d managed to convince your father, other than with his irresistible charm and seeming utter confidence that all would remain proper. You’d warned him that your father could be protective and that he certainly wouldn’t be impressed with the over 10-year age gap between the two of you nor would he fall for empty promises and charm. Yet, you’d been proven wrong - Elvis’ deferential tone and good manners had gotten him further than you’d expected them to into your father’s good graces. He hadn’t had to work hard with your mother. Despite her opposition to his poster, she was predisposed to agree to anything a pretty man said to her regarding her only daughter especially if he was implying he would provide a safe future for her. And he certainly did imply such - even going so far as to suggest you put your plans for college on hold indefinitely; what good was a degree for a woman who didn’t need to work? He’d said it subtly, simply assuring them you wouldn’t need it. But still, your father had been horrified by this - all his work to try and make his only child see she could have a brighter future than a housewife seemingly for nought. Your mother, however, had been pleased as punch when you’d gone along with it. Other than as a matchmaking opportunity she had never seen the point in you going off to study literature. But with a promise that you agreed and that it was just for the moment, not necessarily forever, although Elvis had winked across the table at you as you’d said it, your father had relented. He had completely caved once Elvis had assured him that you would, of course, have your own bedroom in a tone that had implied he was appalled that it was even suggested that would not have been the case and the very next week you’d left for Memphis with him.
More startling to you than even the speed of their agreement was the fact that most of these weren’t empty promises as you’d assumed. You hadn’t really had a strong opinion about college, although you hated to disappoint your father and you had enjoyed your advanced classes in high school, you had believed that he truly was just telling them what they had wanted to hear. Simply using it as a way to emphasise his ability to take care of you. But while he hadn’t actively stopped you, he also hasn’t been particularly encouraging either - making it very clear that under no circumstances would he consider it if it meant leaving him for any length of time. You’d decided that you honestly weren’t bothered enough to push the issue, at least not yet, since it wasn’t as if you could imagine yourself either bored or wanting for anything while you lived at Graceland.
You had been particularly shocked at his not-so-subtle assurances that your virtue was, in fact, completely safe. You obviously knew it was what your parents wanted and needed to hear but had just expected him not to broach the topic, considering not an hour before the conversation you had been necking in the back of his Cadillac - just two blocks away from your house and his hands had definitely not stayed strictly above your waist. You’d had more action in that hour than ever before - the most you’d experienced before that moment was in the tenth grade when Trevor had slipped you the tongue and squeezed a single boob behind the science block. That hadn’t been anything special, you hadn’t understood what the big deal was, but Elvis? He’d lit you on fire.
Some of his promises hadn’t held though - you did have a bedroom but you had never slept in it. He’d kept the alcohol strictly away from you - you were, after all, he joked, not 21 yet; you’d tried to argue that you were in Tennessee now and you only had to be 18 but it hadn’t got you very far. He didn’t, however, seem to have the same qualms with slipping you a pill to help you stay awake every now and again when he was late back. He was still Elvis. He still threw lavish gatherings and after-dinner chats that turned into raucous parties most nights, and he still took you out to places that would cause your father to pass out if he’d known you were hanging out there. There were still people coming and going from the house at all hours of the day and night and his face was still plastered over all the tabloids and newspapers. But you had fun, it was exciting and different and he never made you feel like you were small-minded for being unaware that this kind of life could be a possibility. Instead, he seemed to relish opening your eyes to the new opportunities - closing down diners, taking you on expensive dates, gifting you outrageous presents; you had only been at Graceland a few weeks when he’d left a perfectly wrapped box on your vanity for you to find - a little pendant spelling out EP in perfect, tiny diamonds. You’d never imagined you’d be the kind of girl who could own diamonds, you’d hoped for maybe an engagement ring but never fathomed them in your everyday jewellery.
Some of his promises he’d clearly felt exceedingly strongly about - he would not budge on you going out with being essentially chaperoned, he wouldn’t budge on college, or ensuring you didn’t want for anything. Most frustratingly, while you wouldn’t claim to be entirely virtuous you were, fundamentally, still a virgin. At first, you’d been pleased he wasn’t pushing for it, you had always been certain you would wait until marriage if only because the only girls you knew who didn’t were “trouble”. But he had rocked your core beliefs with how easy he had made it all seem. Before Elvis you had always understood that pain was inevitable; Suzy’s big sister had been vocal about the fact that it almost always hurt. But now you were convinced that everyone had either been exaggerating or simply been with peculiarly inexperienced and unaware partners. Elvis hadn’t done much more than slip you a finger alongside his tongue but he’d certainly made sure each time that you were ready for anything. Even if anything had not yet occurred. He’d fundamentally altered your understanding of sex, and it seemed totally incongruous with his appearance and personality that he would be willing to hold out for any reasonable length of time. But he’d told you not to worry about it and given you an education in everything but. You were no longer scared of the possibility of the awkwardness, or the pain of your first time, instead you were desperate.
Furthermore, despite all the fun you were having you couldn’t help starting to worry that he was surely going to get bored soon; you were itching to be more to him, do more with him. Sure he’d had you on your knees “trainin’ [his] baby up” but wouldn’t that only satisfy him for so long? He was Elvis and sure you had a pretty good opinion of yourself but you weren’t anywhere near his level in your opinion. You weren’t totally innocent, you’d heard from your mother’s gossip and girls in your friendship group discussing how you had to make sure you offered a little bit more, “keep ‘em interested, but not too much”, “don’t seem too eager”, “make sure you keep ahead of him though, you don’t want him to bore of you”. This worried you slightly - he didn’t seem bored, but it was also impossible for you to stay ahead of him. You’d had no idea that the things he’d done with his fingers or tongue were things people did. Or that the way he made you feel was even possible.
You’d been at Graceland almost a full three months when you had started to push for it. Sure that if you didn’t you wouldn’t last past the six-month mark. Begging him to slip “just the tip” or mentioning that you felt like you were grown enough to make your own decision on that matter, after all, you had celebrated your 19th birthday with him now. That had just made him laugh - assuring you that regardless of how grown you may feel you were his, and he made the decisions around here - down to the colour of your nails - not you. It was always said so nonchalantly too; like the very concept of being owned in that way wasn’t strange at all.
You’d tried going at it the other way, catching him while you were in the middle of other acts - promising you were his “good girl, daddy’s good girl, couldn’t you give him a present?” Only to get firmly rebuked and told as he laughed darkly at you “- now baby, how you gonna gift me what’s already mine?” Once, after a brief period where he’d been away, on the night of his return you’d almost managed to get him to give in and had been, after he’d calmed down, informed that even if you were positive you were ready he was certainly not about to risk your reputation with a baby.
You had laughed at this - if this was his main opposition to your proposition there were plenty of ways around it. The first was of course reminding him that you were sure your reputation was already in tatters being pictured with him. And you honestly didn’t even care about your reputation anyway. It wasn’t the dark ages anymore, and while, sure, you hadn’t stood outside of congress with a placard, you still would have said you fundamentally agreed with the arguments of those who did. You weren’t the sort of girl who would proudly proclaim yourself a feminist but that didn’t mean you didn’t believe that what they were asking for was fair. So you’d spent a week researching - originally any mention of ‘The Pill’ had been met with scepticism from you; surely it was too good to be true? And in some ways it was - you weren’t 21, and you were unmarried so it was impossible to get ahold of for you anyway, well would have been if you weren’t sure that Elvis himself certainly could have gotten a hold of it. You had, one day, brought this up - perhaps stupidly - over breakfast. He’d considered you for a second, still chewing on a pancake, sat like he always did with his legs spread wide and lounging back. He was dressed casually, but still smartly - trousers and shirt perfectly pressed, but with his hair still barely combed.
“Ain’t no way I’m letting you mess with yourself like that.” He was firm in his refusal and he sits upright to stare at you.
“But El- everyone’s doin’ it - it’s not any different than your pills!” You didn’t see the irony in the women’s liberation movement being reduced to you whining to your boyfriend to be allowed the opportunity to utilise it.
“No fucking chance little girl.” He tuts and shakes his head, “I’ve read about the shit that's in that, and there ain’t no way,” his voice raises “-no way at all, I’m letting you fuck around with god-knows-what.” He pauses for dramatic effect, pushing his plate away, “I’m gonna put a baby in you one day and they say it can affect it catching.” He’s getting caught up now starting to recite whatever article it is he’s read that makes it clear it's unsafe. You start to protest, even as part of you glows at the idea he might want to keep you forever.
"Ok, ok,” You interrupt him as he starts to talk in wildly medical terminology that you understand very little of, “ok but what if, just for the moment, you wore a rubber?” You knew he wouldn’t go for it, the man barely wore underwear, but you were hoping it would make the pill seem like a more attractive prospect. He looked at you, and couldn’t have looked more appalled if you’d stood up and slapped him.
"No." And that was that. You tried again a few minutes later when the silence seemed to stretch on - you knew you were starting to toe the line of what he’d allow but you couldn’t help it. Even though he seemed reluctant to discuss it, this was still the most engagement you’d had on the topic.
"Ok but E - just wait a second and hear me out," He turns to look at you, his eyebrows raising as he waits with a look of patronising patience on his face, like how you wait for a child to tell you a new fact of common knowledge that they’ve learnt, “Really… how is it any different to what else we do, like… with your fingers?” He stands up and you wince inwardly. You’ve pushed it far too far.
“That’s different baby, that’s just … practicing. What you’re asking for - it ain’t right - not for God and not for you or the promises I made your daddy.” He looms over you, forcing you to peer up at him and he’s smirking like he’s already won the argument and you think well if you’re in for a penny;
“Ok well then, what if I say I don’t believe in that shit anymore? What if I wanna go out and be Betty Friedan? It’s not 1945 anymore baby - we don’t have to be married.” His hand comes up to your cheek and you force yourself not to flinch - he would never hit you and you know that but his eyes are flashing and he can be unpredictable in this mood. He grips your chin and cheek in one hand -
“You gonna tell me you’re unsatisfied now honey?” He laughs, “Don’t be so fucking ridiculous. Unsatisfied and a fucking slut? Doesn’t believe in god? No chance.” He forces your head to shake, “I know you Darlin’ and you’re gonna be my good little wife when the time is right and I won’t be goddamn fuckin’ rushed. Understand?” You nod. He’s right you didn’t believe what you were spouting either - he knows you still kneel before bed like a child each night, the habit of a lifetime difficult to break when doing so had given you him. His hand slips down to your neck and pulls out your necklace. You wear his initials around your neck always - that was part of your problem; the end did not seem in sight, you wore him around your neck not your finger. He joked about you being his ‘little wife’ but ultimately no real promises had been made. You sigh, looking up into his clear eyes and expression that had hardened beyond what you believed his soft cheeks could. You nod.
“Good girl.” He drops your chin and stretches starting to leave the room, he pauses in the doorway turning back to you his jaw clenching; “I don’t want this brought up again.” You nod again, for some reason the confrontation leaves you close to tears and unwilling to speak in case you can’t stop the floodgates.
You hadn’t brought it up again, even though the fear you’d felt; that your status as a shiny new toy might soon wear off, remained. It had - for a while after - seemed unfounded, a couple of months had passed and it had not been brought up by either of you again; it seemed he really was satisfied with you as you were. You couldn’t claim to be otherwise - but that didn’t mean that the desire you’d felt had waned.
————
He’d brushed you off again last night after dinner. Well, perhaps not brushed off, but he didn’t play like he usually does - or used to. It’s been almost two weeks and he has, in fact, not touched you at all like he normally does. Usually, you can count on being pulled onto his lap at some point in the evening, if not literally at the dinner table then certainly afterwards on a couch or armchair, and often this would lead to pretty public making out; often his hands would… explore … beyond the boundaries of propriety - you can’t imagine how many times other members of the household or ‘Memphis mafia’ must have caught a glimpse of your panties. Although that is certainly all that is ever offered - a glimpse. His level of possession over you knows no bounds and neither does his fairly traditional opinion of how women should both behave and be treated in non-private settings. You can still count on him either demanding you sleep with him or simply moving you to his bed but any bedroom activities have been strictly reserved for the tiniest bit of touching imaginable, a quick play of a nipple or squeeze of a cheek before simply kissing and falling asleep. He’s been looking tired lately, and he’s had a ton of meetings about a couple of his new films. You feel sympathy but at the same time, you’re getting tired of being ignored.
More importantly, you’re worried that he’s growing tired of you - he could have any number of pretty young things, any number of pretty mature things too and you do worry that the number of actresses and starlets he mingles with on a regular basis must make your shine pale a bit in his eyes. After all, what good is a girl that won’t even have sex with him, or rather from his eyes can’t have sex with him? And really what does he even need you for if not that? It’s not like you run his house, or work, or contribute anything more than your company. He can argue all he likes that he likes you like this. That he loved that all your experience is with him alone, that he’s solely taught you how to give and receive pleasure but you still worry that this last boundary is now making you seem unattractive to him in his new glitzy environments. Prudish and backward in comparison to the knowledgable shiny California girls he’s rubbing shoulders with. But after the last conversation, you’re definitely not going to be the one to bring it up. Still, the fact remains that Elvis has been treating you differently lately. You’ve tried everything you usually would - going up to bed before him, being almost aggressively available, and the opposite, being completely covered up and tucked in or absent entirely until he comes looking. You honestly can’t think of any other way to break the cycle now other than one solution: Complete Seduction.
A task you find difficult for a multitude of reasons - you’re not particularly body shy, especially around him, but you’ve been naked in front of him consistently the past fortnight and it still hasn’t enticed him. You’re certain nothing about you has changed; you’ve stayed the same size and shape - you’ve tried makeup on and makeup off, hair up and down. You’ve tried underwear and nightdresses as well as any manner of short day dresses, and exceedingly tight tops and trousers but still nothing. Ultimately, you think to yourself, it's hard to be seductive in sensible cotton underwear you’ve owned since you were 15 - just as it is impossible to feel so in gingham pyjamas emblazoned with butterflies and frills on the ankles and collar. Hard to feel seductive, and certainly hard to look it.
You’re alone today, he’d left you early in the morning - strangely early for him - for yet another meeting with the promise he’d be back in the early evening; a chaste kiss as he left the bedroom and he was gone before you were even fully awake.
When you awake properly, a few hours later, you roll over - staring at the dark ceiling of his room. You take the time to assess your options for Operation: Seduce Elvis. You could order something, but that could take days. You roll onto your stomach with a huff, the heat that you can already feel pulsing between your legs won’t wait for days. You consider touching yourself, he doesn’t like it…unless he’s watching. But would he even know? You rub yourself against the bed, no. You don’t need to. He’ll be taking care of you tonight. You could ask one of the other girls to pick you up something, which would solve the predicament of having to choose something, but the prospect of explaining the predicament you’re in overwhelmingly embarrasses you. The gossip runs rampant around here, and the boys are just as bad as the girls - you couldn’t guarantee it wouldn’t get back around to Elvis nor could you stomach everyone knowing that you don’t know how to please him. Which only leaves one option: going shopping yourself. You push yourself out of bed determined to get this done.
You drag yourself through your getting-ready routine, grab your purse and check there’s an ample amount of cash inside - you have no idea how much this kind of thing costs but you’re willing to bet a fair amount - and start to leave. You consider the keys, debating if taking your own Cadillac would be more or less obvious than taking one of Elvis’. Although you guess, technically they’re all Elvis’. Pausing by the door you consider for a second if you should be going out alone at all - rarely do you venture out without someone accompanying you either for safety or security or just general companionship. It had only happened twice out of sheer necessity since living at Graceland and both times Elvis had been unhappy about it, but on this occasion, you didn’t have a choice. You peer out the window down at the gates and for a rare occasion there’s nobody out there; there is usually at least one or two girls or paparazzi hoping to catch a glimpse, although it doesn’t normally tend to get busy unless someone lets slip a known engagement or leaving time and/or it’s clear there’s a party happening. Well, that makes up your mind; you’re certain that you can do this all yourself. By the time you’re on the road your adrenaline is strangely coursing through you, why do you feel like you’re on the run? You laugh at yourself as you sing along to the radio, Elvis inevitably playing when you’re two miles away and you would have thought it would have made you more nervous, but for some reason, it inspires you with budding confidence. This is going to work, and it’s all going to be ok.
You’re recognised in the boutique, you can tell by the way the assistant’s eyes widen and glances down at your neck. It’s not unexpected, in the past six months you have been photographed together too often for it not to be assumed you were together in at least some capacity even if it hasn’t yet been confirmed by anyone. The ever-present necklace is clearly visible over the top of your pale dress; subtlety is not exactly Elvis’ strong suit, it may not be huge but it does still clearly spell out EP in twinkling diamonds and you are only ten miles from Graceland. You take a deep breath before attempting a confident smile.
“Hi there,” The girl smiles back at you but it's clear she’s nervous, looking you up at down as she stumbles out a greeting. “I need some new things… but I’m hoping we could be as discrete as possible?” You glance around the empty shop, the girl looks slightly offended in response,
“Absolutely, Miss. Of Course.” Your smile softens,
“Well in that case I could do with some help.”
An hour and a half later you’re leaving, satisfied you have everything required to make an impression. You’re not 100% certain exactly how you made it through the ordeal, eventually agreeing to model for the assistant after she mentioned they didn’t have any further appointments booked for the day and she was, therefore, willing to close for you, on the understanding that you would be spending enough to make it worth their while. The experience was… different to say the least, you had never shopped for lingerie before; in fact, the only ‘lingerie’ you truly owned had been bought for you by Elvis. You’d happily modelled the sets he bought you for him but even they were somewhat similar to the underwear you already owned - pastels in cotton and the occasional velvet or satin. And honestly, he mostly bought you clothing, dresses and coordinating sets rather than underwear of any kind. You think it’s probably because he didn’t want to scare you off, knowing that you’re still rather timid in the bedroom despite certain… desires you may attempt to make plain to him. But never had you even tried on anything as revealing as your purchase today - you’d tried it on over your underwear, aware that not only were you not comfortable with the random sales girl seeing all you had to offer but that Elvis would, should he ever find out, go completely off the rails at the very idea.
By the time you get back, it’s mid-afternoon, and you sit and chat with Mary for a little while in the kitchen before pulling yourself together, deciding to go and have a long bath before you have to be ready for Elvis’ return. The hot water does the trick at revitalising you and it allows you to make sure every part of you is perfect for the night you have planned; making sure you’re buffed smooth everywhere that you require to be. You take your time moisturising every inch, the coconut vanilla scent you both favoured remaining long after you re-cap the tub.
Finally, you’re in your robe, looking down at the big white box in your hands, you hold it for a moment and sigh before placing it back down on the bed. You turn to look through a drawer instead, pulling out a couple of different options. What were you thinking this morning? There’s no way you can pull that outfit off! You rifle some more, sure that at the least there was the pink satin set Elvis bought you last month somewhere in there and that would probably do if you put in a little more effort. But alas, while you can find the bra the matching panties are not in there, you huff; how can there be half the set?
The room you’re in is technically your bedroom, but it’s used as a dressing room since it houses all your clothes and you haven’t, despite how long you’ve been here now, slept a whole night in it. Despite the gorgeous bed adorned with all manner of frilly pillows and bedspreads, it was still a regular-sized queen frame and while it made you feel small in the centre of it - setting up the bed as if it were a twin with a singular set of pillows in the middle, Elvis claimed it was far too small and there was no need to stay there when he had such a large one next door. Disregarding the fact that wherever you slept he couldn’t help but crowd into you, or clutch onto you regardless of the width of the bed.
You consider the options before you. Biting your lip in consternation for a second before remembering that if there was a mark Elvis didn’t put there himself he wouldn’t be too pleased. You dramatically sigh looking the box over again. Fuck it. The vulgarity of the phrase is unlike you even in your thoughts. ‘Fuck it’ you think again, ‘If I’ve got this far I might as well go the whole damn way.’ You pop the babydoll over your head so that you don’t have to mess with the perfectly tied ribbon in the centre and tug it so it lies correctly. The slits in the bodice falling directly where they should be and your breasts resting properly in the cups. It was…sheer. Very sheer. You knew it was, but seeing it fully without your underwear obscuring the visuals it seems even more daring than you expected. It’s so exceedingly different to your usual underwear, which were all, even the ones bought by Elvis, certainly opaque. Most of your underwear had still been bought by your mother and so your collection mostly consisted of sensible block colours and girlish utilitarian designs. The bottoms were also considerably smaller than most of your own, you assessed as you dragged the panties up your legs, which has been a deciding factor in why you bought the set - since they weren’t too outrageous but were still decidedly different. Instead of cutting across your legs at the top of your thighs, they curved upwards into a high-leg effect. This also meant that they were considerably slimmer in the coverage at the back than you would normally consider proper, and made from the same sheer material with a tiny strip of silk along the gusset. But then, you also wouldn’t have found buying lingerie, a negligee no less, with only ties to hold it closed in a sheer dark maroon red proper usually either.
You stand and looked at yourself in the mirror for a moment. The overall effect was striking. Your skin looked paler in contrast to the depth of the colour and the blush you felt crawling over your chest and cheeks appeared to blend in, rosying your complexion twice over. You attempt a pose for a moment and debate if you should try to make your nipples harden or leave them as they are, knowing that the lack of structure to the garment will mean they’re probably going to be visible through whatever you decide to put on top. Suddenly you feel ridiculous, you’re not about to be in a goddamn centrefold. What are you playing at? You look like you’re playing dress-up. But when you glance over at the clock again you realise your time to make any changes has gone and if you want to be dressed by the time the boys get home you need to get a move on. Fast. You’d laid out a couple of options earlier and you decide to go for the safest bet, he loves green on you. It’s a little silk set - a long sleeve top with a high neck collar with little covered buttons going down the back and a matching mini skirt with a little flare to it. But when you put it on you realise that should you lift your arms it bares enough of your midriff that it spoils the surprise of the babydoll. So, thinking fast, you decide to simply hitch the skirt up high and tuck the shirt in. It causes the skirt to rise to an almost indecent height but the flounce at the bottom affords at least the illusion of length.
As you’re buckling your shoes you can hear a murmur of a car driving up from the gates getting louder. ‘Just in time.’ you think as you quickly fix your hair, you wish you’d left yourself more time to do something else with it but shopping and the preparation for the evening had taken longer than you had planned so you were stuck with the teased hair and white scarf you’d tied into a headband from earlier. Luckily, the white still goes well with your white socks and shoes. You could hear the boys laughing and the car doors closing and you hurried so you could greet them as they came through the door. Ridiculous as it may seem you were always excited to see him when he came home - he just seemed to have a magic touch that made everyone happy to see him regardless of how little time had passed since you last had him.
The men burst through the doors just as you’d made it to the bottom of the stairs and you were pleased you’d made it that far because when Elvis comes in he immediately looks up and beams through his sunglasses at you when you’re the first thing he sees in the house. He comes forward to grab you around the waist and you stumble for a second before his grip steadies you, his hands hot on your sides,
“Hey there, pretty mama.” You smile back at him,
“Hey, handsome boy.” You lean up for a hello kiss, which he obliges, the rest of the group spill into the hallway, shouting their hellos and greetings at you on their way past. He looks down at you and smiles,
“Whoo,” he lets out a whistle, “Baby, what are you all dressed up for? This all here for me?” He pushes you back and spins you around, your skirt flicking up slightly as it catches the slight breeze. You laugh,
“Well, duh! Who else Daddy!” His smile grows even wider, and he pulls you up to him
‘Well who indeed baby,’ he muttered against your lips, before kissing you again causing you to melt against him.
——-
Several hours later you’re all sitting around having after-dinner chats and drinks; both Elvis and yourself were nursing Pepsi’s but most of the rest of the group had felt free to avail themselves of his well-stocked bar. It was a pretty standard evening, nothing too rowdy and no strangers had been invited so it was just what Elvis would call family there tonight. He’d had you on his lap for most of the evening, placing you onto his thighs almost as soon as you’d finished eating, and then when you’d all moved into the den he’d made sure you knew he expected you perched between or on his legs. When you’d come back from the bathroom he’d not even paused in his conversation - simply holding out a hand and pointing to his thigh. Finally, you had thought, he’s showing an interest. He’s laughing and joking with the other boys while you sit there, jostling with every guffaw - his hand slips under your skirt, almost surreptitiously, although you’re sure everyone’s aware, and while you had been lazing against his chest you perk up slightly at the contact.
You feel him brush the back of your bottom - his hand pauses for a second by the crease between your ass and thigh before he dances his fingers across, he eventually finds the leg band and snaps it lightly against your skin. You didn’t expect it so you jump a tiny bit, although it didn’t hurt, and his hand immediately soothes where he may have left a mark and while his conversation doesn’t falter you can almost hear the cogs whirring in his head. You bury your head in his shoulder to disguise your smile, and can’t help but squirm a little as he readjusts you - holding onto you with one hand as his other, the one closest to his body, slips up the front of your skirt. You let out a tiny breathy whine as his fingertips run across your panties - the barely there fabric allowing to you feel everything. He removes his fingers and taps your thigh causing you to sit up straighter. Clearly, he doesn’t intend on doing too much in public tonight. He lightly pushes you off as he makes a stand, starting to make his excuses. “Oh, It’s been a long day.” He grips you tight to him as he announces that unfortunately, he has to be going as he’s sure you’re "tired and need to be put to bed". You fight back a growl at that remark, you’re perfectly capable of putting yourself to bed thank you very much. But you don’t want to protest too much; it’s been hours since dinner was served and you were more than ready to leave. The longer you had to wait to show off your new purchases the more anxious you got.
Elvis pushes you in front of him, slapping your ass playfully to get you to move, you quickly say goodnight to everyone left downstairs as you dutifully get moving towards the staircase. As soon as you’re out of the room Elvis grabs your wrist and pulls you back. He looks at you in the eyes for a moment, unblinking and you’re the first to break glancing down at his lips and back up. The second you looked away you’d lost and he immediately pounced, kissing you like he was dying without it. Your tongues fought for dominance for a moment, and his hand stayed clutching your arm while the other climbed up your chest to rest just below your neck. You acquiesce, submitting and letting him take complete control except for your hands finding their way into his hair. He pulls back and pushes you in front of him up the stairs, you hurry up them - near slipping once but thankfully his arm caught your elbow before you fell;
“Eager darling?” He laughs at you, and looks you once over before throwing you over his shoulder and bounding up the last few stairs - he smooths your skirt down as you pass into his bedroom. He smacks your ass once, you yelp and he drops you gently on the bed, leaning over you to kiss your face and neck. One of his hands goes up to hold himself up, resting the other side of your head whilst the other strokes gently up your leg getting bolder and climbing up even further with every passing second. He presses his fingers against your panties and pauses again. Your breath catches in your throat. He sits up and pushes the skirt all the way up, he pulls back to look at you. He stares at your panties for a moment, you know by now the growing dampness has to be evident through the other side, they are after all very thin, before looking you up and down as a whole.
“Is there…” His tone is gruff, both from momentary underuse and arousal, he coughs a tiny bit and his voice is even deeper when he continues, his words slightly slurring together, “more of this unner here?” He tugs at your shirt, and you nod,
“Yes, baby, it’s a set.” He frowns for a second, before moving like a child unwrapping a present on Christmas morning, rushing to tug at the shirt again, moving his fingers to pop the top couple of buttons out when it doesn’t shift and grabbing hold when he deems you capable of getting your head out. You slither out of the shirt and allow yourself to be manhandled for him to access the zip on the side of the skirt, pulling it open and off your body in one pull. He takes a deep breath in and stands, taking a few paces back to appraise you better. His eyes darken as his pupils widen as he looks you over, and he crosses his arms, the veins in his forearms flexing. You thank god for his preference for short sleeve shirts for a second. You look up at him through your eyelashes, attempting to recreate the coquettish countenance that all the girls seem to have a knack for that you can never quite achieve. His eyes flash and his frown deepens.
“God-almighty what’s this get-up all about?” You stare back at him stunned, he doesn’t seem pleased. In fact, he sounds downright pissed.
“What…what do you mean?” He stares at you, not responding and like always you cave first. “What do you mean daddy? Don’t you like it?” You push yourself up onto your elbows looking at him with concern. He heaves a dry breathless laugh, and he leans back down, his hand rising up your stomach, through the break in the negligee and up to squeeze a breast, fingertips dancing over a nipple as he resumes kissing your neck, pulling you closer to get to your lips. He breaks apart briefly to speak,
“You tryna kill your daddy sweetheart?” You laugh against his lips, laugh turning to a moan as he pinches a nipple particularly roughly and catches your bottom lip in his teeth. His fingers trail south again, and before you know it he’s tracing the line of your waistband, his fingers starting to dip beneath when you seem to lose all control of the situation. They’re not doing much more than simply resting there but even that is enough to set you alight. Your own hands start to travel down his chest, unbuttoning his shirt along the way, you buck up as his fingers graze past your naval circling around before going back to their ministrations below the panties. Your hips briefly touch his and you moan,
“Daddy, please. Please. I’m all wrapped up just for you. For anything you like.” You take a shuddery breath in as he leans back to look at you again, his own lips looking bitten and swollen and his eyes burning brighter than you’d seen them in days.
“Please Daddy, it aches.” His eyes roll back and he starts to stutter a response, his hips thrusting seemingly involuntarily forward. ‘Gotcha’ you think. You arch your back and through your hooded eyes you can see his expression perfectly he hungrily watches your own hand trail down to your soaked panties. You moan as your fingers touch your hot lips beneath your panties, spreading them apart and rubbing a finger between - and you look back at him, gazing into his eyes for a second before taking the chance.
“Daddy, I feel so empty,” you squirm slightly for emphasis, and you glance down at his still fully clothed bulge, “You could….put it in me if you like?” His hips shutter forward and he breathes out heavily, his eyes closing briefly before he grimaces. Damnit - you were so close. You shouldn’t have pushed your luck - just taken the attention he’d not been recently bestowing on you happily and moved on. He stands up again, this time grabbing your forearm, yanking it out from between your legs and pulling you right up with him, like a rag doll you go where you’re put. He sits on the bed and pulls you around to sit facing him on his spread thighs. He hums for a second, one hand gripping tightly at your side, the other clutching your thigh. You drape your arms over his shoulders, simultaneously for balance and for lack of knowing what else to do with them. His hand on your side moves up to grip your neck as soon as you seem to start to relax.
“My lil' girl a whore now?” You stare back at him. The tone was unkind and unnecessary - while he’s been stern with you in the past he’s never been so callously harsh before and you can’t imagine what he stands to mean by it. You look back at his face horrified for a moment, tears immediately starting to fill simply at his tone.
“Daddy!” You respond in outrage, pulling your arms away, “What on earth do you mean! Do you not like the outfit?” He looks at you again, flicking the bottom of the babydoll with a finger;
"Well honey, It’s not what daddy would have picked out for ya.” Your cheeks redden as you sputter back at him;
“What’s wrong with it? I liked it! The girl at the store liked it!” At no point when you’d spent the day planning the evening had you expected he’d get you undressed and then not like the get-up. It was a scenario that had not even crossed your mind. His grip on your thigh tightens further.
“We-ell baby,” He starts to take on the educating tone he’s forced to put on so often in his movies, or rather the tone he ends up using in his movies because he does so often use it to talk to women, “I like it too but it’s not right for my innocent little girl. You’re not a whore waiting to be … fucked. at any given moment. You’re my sweet little baby doll and if you wanted new panties you should’ve come ‘ere and sat on daddy’s knee and asked for them.” You felt another rush of wetness at his words, even as your body burned with embarrassment, you attempt to push away from him but he holds you in place,
“I’m not a child Elvis! I took myself to the boutique, I tried this on myself and I feel good in it! And who cares even if I was a whore!”
“Hell darlin’,” he laughs again briefly, “I oughta putcha over my knee for doin’ all this behind your daddy’s back. Let alone suggesting your daddy might be with a whore.” His tone changes again deepening further as his grip on your neck tightens for a second, holding your head in place. “Baby, I thought we’d been over this. You’re my dolly. My yittle bittle baby doll and that means I get to buy you new clothes, or underwear and dress you exactly how I want to.” He swats your ass, and his tone changes as he practically growls the next part, “1And that also means that you’re a whore if I say you’re a goddamn whore, and if I say you’re not then you’re goddamn not. Get it doll?” You squeak and nod as he grips your chin. “And my wittle girl is a good girl, so however much she wants it, she isn’t getting fucked by anyone but me. And that means she’ll have to wait until Daddy’s done the right thing. Understood.” His finger taps your cheek, your wetness has to be leaking through to his thigh by now, you can practically feel it seeping through the fabric. You hurriedly nod,
“Yes! Yes, daddy.” He rewards you by hooking a finger into the crotch of your knickers and gently stroking from your clit down to your labia and back up again. He shifts you to balance on a single thigh rather than across the two, You rut against him, unable to stop yourself - catching his finger between your core and his own leg; his knuckle catches briefly on your clit and you feel sparks - almost like pins and needles shoot through your body. He pulls his hand away as soon as you rock back again, and stills your forward motion with his wet fingers against your middle - wrapping his arm around you to hold you in place against him, his hand once again sliding down to play with you although this time he kept you still - his lips are against your ear and he kisses just beneath your ear lobe and down to the crease of your shoulder before continuing to talk,
“Honestly honey, I’ve got a good mind to put you over my knee anyway and give you a good dose of what happens to sneaky, naughty, dis’bedient little girls.” Your face burns and he laughs, jostling you on his lap before he pulls his finger out, wiping it on the mesh of your top on the way before considering for a moment and shoving it into your mouth with the firm instruction to
“Taste how desperate you are for me.” He uses his other hand to pull at the ribbon holding the two sides closed,
“I want this off, and my pretty little dolly back in her pretty little girl clothes, and maybe I’ll decide you don’t need that spanking after all.” He yanks it down and off of you, simultaneously gently but roughly pulling your arms out, akin to a tired mother forcing her baby’s arms out of their sleeper. Before screwing the fabric into a ball and flinging it against the wall. You don’t really understand - he can’t like your usual underwear, can he? And it took such a lot out of you to even go and get this set that to just have it thrown off upsets you.
“But, but wait a second Daddy, don’t you think it’s all a bit babyish? my mother bought most of my underwear.” You flinch slightly and put on your best pleasing eyes, “And… you’ve been ignoring me and this set really was a lot of money…”
He pauses again, before putting you upright between his legs to tug the panties off - you have no choice but to help by stepping out of them, still held by your arm and not wanting to stand there stupidly hobbled by the frankly, soaking panties, he talks as he strips you;
“So that’s what this is all about? I’ve been ignoring you? I’ve been busy mama.” You start to protest again and he jumps in before you can say anything else, “I like your panties darling, but if you wanted something new you should’ve asked, I’d buy you the whole damn shop.” You scoff,
“Yeah but only the ones that the pope himself would approve of.” He growls and grips your arm; chucking you over his legs. “No! Daddy! Elvis! I didn’t mean it like that, I just meant that - you don’t have to do this!”
He smacks your ass hard, a handprint blooming in pink almost immediately - “Elvis!” you shriek.
“Clearly, you need some remindin’ whether you got a ‘pinion on any of this,” his accent deepens - full words becoming lost and his sentences blending together as his breathing picks up, “and who your Daddy is.”
You’re not sure how he manages to stay so stern when he couldn’t keep a straight face delivering a similar line in Blue Hawaii - unless it’s simply that he truly does believe he has the right to do what he likes here; he’s not playing around with you. But that’s a thought you have later, in the moment all you can feel is the flood of heat between your legs from his word and all you can think is, ‘Lord above he’s smacking me hard.’
“You’re mine. Say it. Say you’re my dolly.” His hand smacks down again, he doesn’t hold back much. While he might treat you like china the rest of the time for some reason he truly seems to believe that it doesn’t count if he’s spanking your ass. Even his playful slaps are generally pretty hard - he doesn’t seem to feel the need to modulate his boisterous approach to activity if it applies to smacking you. He spanks you for probably only a minute, you squirming around the whole time, before he pauses and pulls you back closer to his body, you shriek when his hand comes down again, instead of leaving your body again he grips down - his fingertips turning where’s he’s clutching white amidst the pink-red of the rest of your ass. You take a shuddery breath, you feel like you’re on fire, and while you’re sure you should be trying to resist more you can’t help but melt at his rough actions. He lifts to go again and you panic, thinking that really you’ve had enough of this now and you start to plead,
“I’m yours! I’m yours!” He smiles to himself, lowering his arm to pull you closer and leaning down to growl closer to your ears;
“You’re my what?”
“I’m your doll! I’m your baby!” He chuckles,
“That’s right baby, that’s right.” His hand slaps down a few more times before he stops to gently rub the marks he’d left, his thumb going in small circles. He hums for a second,
“Now lil' baby, this isn’t the first time this has come up, so I’m starting to get that you might be serious about feeling …” his fingers tap on your cheek, “oh so empty”, he puts on a high-pitched voice in an attempt to mimic you, “So how’s bout this darlin’, my mind ain’t changing and I ain’t gonna be rushed but … why don’t we set a date?” Your heart jumps to your throat, he can’t seriously be asking you this, bright red bent naked over his lap. It’s too ridiculous for words,
“Daddy, El-, Elvis, are you,” you push at his arms, twisting around, “are you serious baby?”
“Serious as sin mama - but now don’t go getting it twisted - I’m not saying we’re gonna go out tomorrow - but …” he raps his fingertips on your sore ass consideringly, “how bouts next summer?” You paused briefly in your attempts to squirm around,
“As long as you’re serious - you could promise five years from now and I’d be happy!” He laughs,
“Well now, the new decade could be a plan...but I don't reckon you'd wait that long baby.” he tugs you back up and you immediately fling your arms around him,
“Thank you,” you kiss his neck, “Thank you,” his face, “Thank you,” his lips.
“Only you darlin’ could be put over my knee and come back up proposed to … you got me wrapped around your finger doll.” He squeezes your ass cheek and you squeal in response.
“None of that now honey,” He shushes you, “Daddy don’t wanna hear you whinging and whining - you deserved every one of them handprints.” You look back up at him, making your eyes as big as you possibly can,
“Aw, little mama that’s not fair - don’t look at me like that.” He’s now the one whinging, “Daddy’ll make it all better - he’ll kiss it better.” he lays you down and you bring your knees up, your legs spread looking at him between them; you can’t help but laugh at how eagerly he jumps onto the bed, settling between your thighs. He leans down again, your legs encasing him. He looks up at you, his face is slightly flushed and he looks overwhelmingly, ridiculously, happy - you can’t help but feel pride that out of all the girls in the entire world who want him you’ve managed to make him feel this way. He kisses your forehead, his open shirt tickling your sides as he leans over you, he’s suddenly your entire focus - all you can see, smell and feel is him.
“We’ll hafta make it official baby, why dontcha pick a ring out from Daddy’s box in the morning for now and Daddy’ll go shopping soon?” You nod frantically, narrowly missing bumping heads with him. You lean up to catch his lips again, he’s unable to simply kiss; his teeth catching on your lips. Your head rolls back and you can’t help the noises that are coming out of your mouth - you’re practically keening as he moves down to mouth at your jaw and neck. He slides down further, peppering your chest in kisses - he sucks just below your collarbone, leaving you gasping and a bruise sure to bloom.
“For now though darlin’ let’s get this feeling better.” He swats your ass and you yelp -
“That’s not…That’s not better El-“ You break off as he kisses down your naval, his hands gripping your hipbones and his thumbs rubbing circles.
“Just relax baby, Daddy’ll take care of you.” He kisses just above your mound and you can’t help but thrust up slightly.
“No, no. Stay right there sweetheart, stay right there and I’ll take care of you. Wanna make the most of my good little girl before you become my wife.” He pushes your hips down, and then spreads your thighs further - “Daddy’ll kiss it better, make you forget about your sore ass.”
It’s one of his talents, he almost might be as good at it as he is at singing. He licks a stripe down before focussing on your burning core, his tongue slipping in and out as he rubs his thumbs over your clit, his hands holding you open for him. He sucks and nibbles like he has to and you can feel the edge building as he moves his hands to hold your thighs and down and sucks on your clit. Your hips grind in circles, and despite his efforts to hold you down you can’t help but push down and he responds by pushing back - simply sucking harder than before. Your body shudders as you head for an orgasm and you tremble as he lets go with a kiss to the spot he was sucking before once again licking down to your entrance.
“Lawdy baby you’re drippin’.” He stands up and looks down at you, before heaving you up, you stand on shaky legs for only a moment before he hoists you back, sitting himself on the bed and pulling you down - your back against his chest. His thigh slots between your leg, and you can feel his burning hot length against your side - he wraps an arm around you pulling you tight to him as your sweaty bodies slide against each other. Your head rocks back onto his shoulder and he leans down. It’s an awkward angle and you’re sure your neck will be sore after this but you wouldn’t ever be the one to end it. He’s practically clutching at you - his hand that wasn’t curled around your waist keeping your head in place and kissing you with a dizzying force. He pulls back and you pant, his hand trailing down your body, thumb brushing your nipple, each little movement causing you to shiver.
It eventually reaches between your legs and with a single finger, he strokes down both sides of your labia before circling your clit. Your breathing is heavy now, erratic, and you can hear and feel his similar change of pattern against your neck, his head dipping down to kiss your shoulder. He pulls you tighter so that you’re leaning more heavily against him as he shuffles back - allowing him to lean on the heavily pillowed headboard. He spreads your labia with two fingers and you would, if you had any presence of mind left, be embarrassed at how his fingers just slipped with how wet you are. He dips a single finger into you, and you shudder around him, it’s obscene how close you are to orgasm that that almost sets you off, he chuckles against your shoulder before crooking his finger - your back arches as he strokes your walls. He kisses you again and then he pulls almost all the way out, before going back with two fingers. Your hips are circling of their own accord again now, grinding back down on him. You can feel his cock against your back still, and you wobble on his fingers and thigh as he releases your waist to pump it a couple of times.
“Think you can do three, little?” You frantically nod and he goes to slip in a third, your eyes widen as he goes to push it in alongside the other two, thumb rubbing your clit. It feels much bigger than just simply an extra finger, although his are pretty large, and you feel the burn (despite your wetness) in a way you haven’t since the first few times he touched you like this. His arm has encircled your waist again, so he feels how you jump as he attempts to slide in past his first knuckle and wince as he wiggles his fingers.
“See baby,” His voice is impossibly deep, and his hair brushes your neck as he speaks close to your ear, “Daddy knows best. Your tight little cunt can barely take my fingers, honey, it’s too small for much more still. Daddy’s gonna hafta open you up for next year, train your little wittle hole up.” Your mouth falls open, and he pulls the third finger out - crooking the other two in you - rubbing against your walls, and your hands clutch at his arms as you rock against him. “Can I- Baby, can I just rub against ya?” You nod frantically, grinding your hips down on his fingers and he slips them out to lift you up, placing you more squarely against him so he’s able to slip his cock under you. Rubbing it against your pussy, it knocks against your clit and you shudder - his hands lift you and pull you back and forth, you’re going to have bruises on your hips after this, and your sore ass is being knocked against him but it all just adds to the pleasure you’re feeling.
His hips start thrusting, hard, but impossibly fast - his penis sliding between your lips, your slick and his precum mixing for lubrication. He knocks against your clit, and your head throws back onto his shoulder in pleasure. It only takes a minute or so before he slams you back, and the involuntary grinding of your hips continues even as thrusts start to falter, he’s groaning behind you like a dying man, and the next second he’s cumming. He rubs it through your folds, his cum mixing with the rest of your fluids down here, making it extra slippy across his fingers - he pushes it into your pussy, slicking his way for just the two of his fingers again although you’re sure with the extra lubrication you could take more, and he crooks his fingers just so. His thumb coming up to rub against your clit once again, and everything is so sticky and it feels so wrong in a delicious way. He plays your body like he does guitar, and you’re already so close to the edge that it only takes a few seconds of him stroking you before you’re shuddering against him, mouth open. He rubs you through it, only stopping once you whine at him and attempt to buck off his hands - the overstimulation too much. You roll over, off of him and he slumps next to you. You’re still seeing stars a moment later when he taps your tummy with his sticky hand,
“Whoo,” He whistles lowly, his eyes closed, “mama, what a night.” You glance over at him, you’re having a struggle trying to process all that’s just happened. He glances over at the bundle of lingerie lying against the wall and back at you, huffing a little laugh “God you little minx, can’t believe you bought that. I really do like you in your regular stuff though honey. I really do. You’re my little yittle, I’ve just been busy baby.” You smile, it didn’t take much but you’re convinced, it never takes much where Elvis is concerned. He seems to have some sort of mystical power for it.
“I know Daddy, sorry for trying to make ya…you know.” He pats your thigh, “I do love you…. were you…” You wonder if you shouldn’t just be grateful for what you’ve just had and leave your questions for later, but you’ve just got to know for sure, “you were being serious earlier weren’t you?” You panic in the afterglow that his earlier promise may have been empty - but you should know by now he doesn’t make empty promises.
“Shit, baby, yes.” He tugs your arm, rolling you into his side, leaning down for a kiss, “We’ll sort it all out tomorrow.” You kiss him back, and then pull back, curling into his side.
He waits for a moment or two before placing a kiss on your sweaty forehead as he heaves himself up and heads to the en-suite. You’re half asleep when he’s gently wiping you down with a damp washcloth, and barely cooperative as he pulls a pair of your, regular, panties up your legs. You look up at him with hooded, sleepy eyes as you see him considering your nightgown before clearly deciding against it. He disappears into the bathroom again and you slip out of sleep as he climbs into the bed, helping you under the covers his silk pyjamas brushing against your bare skin. He pulls you against him and you’re fast asleep in seconds.