Take Good Care of Her (PT.1)
Pairing: Elvis or Austin!Elvis x fem!reader
Warnings: 18+, smut, angst, fluff, comfort, LONG, sexual intercourse, oral (female receiving), nipple play, fingering, virgin reader, loss of virginity, breeding kink, horny ass reader, 1950s period typical ideas, elvis being a hound dog, naive reader, innocent reader, people overhear, caught but they don’t realize, jealous elvis, possessive elvis, possessive reader, domestic life
Summary: Reader recalls moments during her relationship with Elvis from her newfound spot as one of Elvis Presley’s many exes.
Being an ex of the one and only Elvis Presley was no rare thing. The man has had his share of women in his life. More than he’d like to admit as a good Southern boy, a believer of the Lord, a singer of gospel tune.
You were just one of many, as the tabloids would proclaim and the rumors around Hollywood would say.
All those actresses. All those models. And you, you were just another number.
Are Elvis and Y/N calling it quits after their longtime romance in Memphis? you remember the article read, and then it continued to say: Small town girl, Y/N, can’t compete with the likes of Ann Margret.
You remember reading that article clear as day, a lump lodged in your throat, your stomach sick as a dog. Sitting at the breakfast table, trying to enjoy your meal, when your eyes found your face on the front page of the entertainment section. It was buried to the bottom of the newspaper pile, and you’d spent a minute digging around for it, wondering what your mother’d done with it. But once you laid eyes on it, you knew exactly what she was trying to conceal from you and you immediately regretted poking around for the trashy article.
You knew it was just that—some silly gossip page with no sound proof. It was all just bait, right?
That picture of you Elvis was sweet, taken during a trip to the cinema house. The paparazzi had stopped you and asked for a picture and you were so nervous you didn’t know what to do. You were looking up at the star, your hand clutched in his, and he was looking out at the crowd, protecting you. The headline surely didn’t match the image. You resounded that there couldn’t have been any truth in the title.
But then you flicked to the next page and found a picture of Elvis—your Elvis—with actress Ann Margret in his lap, his face buried in the crook of her neck, toothy grin wide as could be, and you grew worried that there was some truth in what the article’d said after all.
Your hands let the paper gently down on the table, shaking as you pulled them down to your lap, and took a long breath, a long, shakey, uneven breath. I’m not gonna cry, I’m not gonna cry. This ain’t even real. This is not happening again.
You’d like to believe it wasn’t. Your eyes burned holes into the paper, staring at her, that beautiful, flawless, long legged Hollywood star. And him. Smiling that toothy grin that you adored so. He looked absolutely enamored by her.
Slowly, you reached back up and closed the paper, only to find your face, small and baby-like, Y/E/C eyes wide and naive, staring up at Elvis like he was God. You gulped real hard.
You looked at Elvis like he was the sun and that picture really proved that you may have adored him more than he ever could you. He wasn’t even looking at you, staring pensive in the distance, but you were looking at him with stars in your eyes.
Another long shaky breath fell from your lips. You flipped the newspaper over entirely, exposing to your eyes only the drive-in listings and coca-cola ads. If you can’t see it, it’s not real. You can convince yourself so, just as long as you cannot see it.
But… it was real. It was real this time.
That very same day you received a phone call. Well, your mama did. You weren’t in but they’d asked for you. You’d gone to get some air, driving along somewhere in the country, clearing your head out.
When you came home, your mother was walking about like the floor was made of eggshells. She grinned real strange when you opened the front door, removing your driving scarf and placing your keys on the hook.
“Elvis called,” she said, never not smiling, a sympathetic glimmer in her eyes.
You smiled tightly, humming in response. “Oh?”
“Yes, yes, honey. Said he’s comin’ back to Memphis next week and would like it if you’d be at Graceland when he gets there.” The way she said it, real prim, real proper, concise and closed—you knew she knew. She wasn’t leaving much room to wiggle.
You nodded simply, not daring to look her in the eyes, and began for the stairs. “If he calls again, tell him I moved to Bermuda please.”
Your mama laughed. “Y/N… Bermuda?”
You swallowed your sadness and said from the top of the stairs, “Yes. That way if he goes looking for me, he’ll get sucked into the Bermuda triangle forever.”
You heard her sharp inhale and knew some type of scolding was coming your way but you didn’t care much for whatever she was going to say. You needed to be dramatic, and so you did, quickly rushing into your room and closing the door before she could say a word.
That was nearly three months ago. Now, you’re officially just another ex of Elvis.
You weren’t expecting all of the attention that dating him in the first place had attracted to stick around after you’d split up. You thought your little life would snap back into place, that you’d stretched your rubber band just enough to break, and that you would go much further than you’d gone. The height of your life and fame was when you were Elvis’s woman. The normal girl. The farm girl. The small town girl. The Memphis girl.
You weren’t even from Memphis. You weren’t even from Tennessee. You and Elvis didn’t meet in Memphis, but the newspapers didn’t know that. They just saw you as some chick he met on Beale Street. They didn’t know nothing about your relationship, really, but they loved to put your picture in their papers, make sure the world knew what Elvis’s ex looked like.
You were from Southaven, in Mississippi, where your family had a farm, there was one small grocer in the small strip of town, one school, one shop, and you were the prettiest girl for miles.
Your daddy ran a gas station on the farm and that was also the only thing for miles. Elvis was returning to Graceland after a long few weeks performing and touring. He was coming off a show at West Point, where he sung for an airshow in support of the troops.
His car’d stopped for gas at the only place they could find: your daddy’s station. It was your brother, Jimmie, pumping that night and you were told by your mama to deliver him sandwiches and coca-cola to keep him up.
So you prepared his sandwiches, peanut butter and fluff, and snuck some caramel candies into the bag, coke bottles clinking in your basket, and made your way from the farmhouse down the path to the gas station.
The sight you saw when you arrived you could not comprehend. You had to blink twice, thrice, four times to be sure you were seeing straight. Is that Elvis Presley?
Sure enough it was. He shook your hand and smiled at you softly. That night neither of you said much. They were in a rush to get back and he wasn’t really supposed to get outta the car even, he just needed a breather and did it anyway.
“Cars so stuffy could hardly breathe,” you heard him cracking on with your brother, who you knew to be a goofball. He was easy to joke with. All his friendships were automatic.
You were harder to crack, and it proved so that night, when Elvis ducked back into the car and smiled at you and you could hardly bring yourself to smile back.
You beat yourself up over that one. You were probably never going to see him again and you ruined your one chance to talk to him because you were what? Shy? Reserved? Proud? You didn’t know.
What the papers and the world think happened didn’t happen until a week after that. It was your birthday. Ironically, it was also the fourth of July.
You were turning eighteen. Your friends, Clara and Diane, knew the best place to go, and so blindly, you went. You packed your bag and kicked back in the backseat of Diane’s Chevy convertible. It was a road trip, the three of you would stay overnight, which your mama didn’t like, which was why your brother and his friends were following behind. You’d all get rooms at a hotel in a nice neighborhood. That’s what you told her.
Really, Clara and Diane had plans to take you to Beale Street, a strip of town that your parents would most definitely not approve of. Jimmie wasn’t even sure it was a great idea, but once he heard the music and saw the women, he was swiftly persuaded.
And that was the night you saw Elvis again. It was called Club Handy. Clara knew someone important there apparently, cousins with the owner or something. You didn’t quite know and you didn’t quite care. Your eyes had opened for the first time that night, it felt like, as you watched the singers sing and the people swing, the music roar to life.
You hardly knew how to dance, so when Elvis came in, eyes dark and angry, whispering something to the man Clara knew, you were standing real small against a wall.
Jimmie was dancing with some girl. His friends were chatting up the bartender. Clara and Diane were smoking and drinking, acting like they knew what they were doing. You were taking it in from a far.
“What’re ya doin’, wallflower?” was the first thing he said to you that night. His voice low, charming, his Southern drawl thick.
Your eyes flicked to him. Your mouth ran dry. You didn’t know what to say. Suddenly you were on fire, anxious butterflies in your stomach.
“How’d ya escape the farm?” he asked, humor in his tone.
Your smile broke out, soft and polite. “It’s ma birthday, Mr. Presley. I’m here with my friends to celebrate.” You blushed, nodding to your friends.
“Well, happy birthday, Miss…”
He nodded, smiling, “Happy birthday, Miss Y/N. And please, call me Elvis.”
“Okay. Elvis it is,” you said looking down to your feet to avoid his burning gaze.
He laughed. You were awkward, but he kind of liked that. “Let me get you a drink, Y/N,” he offered, and your head immediately jerked up.
“Oh, you don’t haveta,” you bumble, “I mean, I don’t even-I’ve never-I”
“You’re a pretty girl, Y/N, don’t tell me you ain’t never had a man offer to buy you a drink before.” He chuckled, still amused. You had to explain to him all about your lack of exposure and human shield of a mother. You’d never drank before, much less been in a place that you could get a drink, let alone been in a place where a man could offer to get you one.
But Elvis Presley called you pretty and you were sure you were blushing fiercely, so you allowed him to get you one nonetheless. “Something easy to start me off, please,” you’d asked him, and he chuckled again.
For weeks after that, Elvis would either come to your family farm “for gas” or because he “just happened to be driving in this direction and thought what the hell, a visit won’t hurt.” He was pursuing you.
It played with your nerves a bunch. He was a rockstar, you were just somebody’s daughter. You helped pack crates with milk bottles and planted flowers along your family home. You were planning to go to college. You really wanted to go too, for clerical studies, so you could get a job in a city and be somebody’s secretary in a big building anywhere you wanted. You weren’t sure what you could do with your life as a woman beyond that, so your dreams weren’t plentiful and they weren’t mighty either.
But Elvis Presley wanted you, and so you followed him to Graceland where he wooed you until you finally agreed to going steady with him, despite your mama’s worries and your brother’s warnings. Elvis had just performed at Russwood Park, where he rebelled against the world and wiggled. It wasn’t that your family didn’t like his dancing; they just didn’t think all those herds of girls throwing themselves in his direction would benefit you at all. “Men are easy to tempt,” your brother’d said. “Speaking as one…”
You wish you listened. You stayed with Elvis for some time. But it was on and off really. He got busy. He got more famous. And you got busy too, you went to school, started working in downtown Memphis at an ad agency. You were very into your studies, plus on the weekends you’d have to work on the farm. When you found time for each other, you were surely with each other.
Then, he went to Germany. Shipped away, wrapped in dark green. They cut his hair, shaved his chin real close. You saw him the night before he left. He asked you to stay at Graceland with him.
You thought maybe you’d give it to him that night—you know, it.
You hadn’t done it yet, even though you’d been going together off and on for years.
You’d done other things, sort of. Mostly it was above the belt, him groping you, heavy petting, lips smacking, tongues licking, teeth biting. He’d left a large hickey on your left breast once, right above where your bra cup was. His hand had slipped into your right bra cup, his fingers tweaking your nipple, pinching it, while his lips sucked the flesh of your left breast into his mouth.
You were really hot and bothered that night. He’d never, no one’d ever, touched you like that. You didn’t know pinching your nipples could even get you reacting like that, or that the feeling of his lips anywhere other than your mouth would feel so raw, so real, so unearthly.
That and the feeling of his crotch grinding against your thigh, a hand clutching your waist, you were feeling spiritual.
When you woke up the next morning to find a large bruise-like shape on your breast, you were shocked. Kissing could do that?
You called Elvis and asked him about it. He did nothing but laugh.
After that, he was committed to showing you new things while preserving your honesty.
Genuinely, he wanted to keep you pure, so every time he’d stick his fingers in your dripping hole, he’d make sure you’d keep your skirt on, covering his hand so that you wouldn’t see any of the dirty ministrations he was playing on your soft cunt.
Your sweet eyes didn’t deserve to see the pumping of his fingers inside of you, the stretching of your little pussy, the rubbing of his thumb on your sensitive bud, but he wanted to make you feel good, especially after seeing how hot and needy you’d get every time you’d make out.
He never intended to let it go any further than making out. Okay, he knew he was going to touch your chest, but the way you squirmed against him, like you truly needed it, had him getting dirtier than he should have been.
But the under the skirt stuff only happened a handful of times. Really, it mostly was above the belt.
The night you saw him off to Germany, you went in thinking it would happen. It. You’d make love in his bedroom upstairs at Graceland.
There was an intimate family dinner, but it felt more somber than you’d liked. His mother, Gladys, had passed away just one month before. There was an empty seat at the table where she should have sat.
After dinner, you spent a quiet evening in the living room. He played something nice on the piano, singing softly. One song he asked you to join him on, and you were reluctant but did so anyway. His family never heard you sing before. No one ever had but the people at church, and even then they never heard you solo. You were a part of the choir and knew some hymns and that was it, nothing powerful or fierce. Just some soft church songs. It was beautiful to sing together, you felt like your souls had intertwined.
Then his family went to bed and you and him sat in the living room singing.
“You wanna stay the night?” he asked, low. His voice was kind, familiar.
Your heart ached in that moment, realizing just how familiar he had grown to you. It was comfortable and it was habitual at this point to be near him, just natural. When he wasn’t around, it felt like you had to relearn how to operate.
“I’ll stay,” you whispered back, nose touching his, foreheads pressing against each other. His lips were hovering just above yours, parted very slightly. Your bodies had melted into each other, right there on the piano bench.
And so you stayed, and you followed him up the stairs that night, your heart beating and ready to leave behind a part of you that you’d kept caged up for a long time. You were twenty now, and you were sure you were ready. You thought your innocence would stay on that piano bench forever. You took a deep breath as he pushed open the door to his room.
He closed the door behind you, cupping your cheeks in his hands. You pressed your hands to his chest, looking up at him through your lashes. He kissed you with such passion in that moment, his lips soft and plump moving so perfectly with yours. His tongue slipped into your mouth, opening yours up and allowing him inside. He bit down onto your bottom lip, pulling it back.
He kissed you hard. His hand moved to your neck, his long fingers splayed across it. His other hand traced down your arm, then to the small of your back, where it fell and grabbed your ass. You moaned into his mouth, unexpecting of the sudden touch. He smiled into the kiss at your reaction.
He pulled back, hand still massaging your ass, other hand clasped your jaw, forehead pressed to yours. His eyes bore into yours, his lips hung open, breaths tumbling heavy out of his mouth.
You two had said it before, during a fight after some jerk tried to chat you up at a baseball game and Elvis punched him. The guy was the shallow type, checking you out the whole game, waiting for Elvis to leave your side so he could swoop in. When he came up to you, you tried to wriggle away but he’d had you nearly cornered against the stands. Elvis found you like that and nearly chewed the guy's head off. You weren’t dating during that time, it was one of those “let’s just be friends” moments in between your spurts of being a couple. He was in Memphis only for a brief period before he had to go off and shoot some movie in Hollywood. He called you and invited you to a Memphis Chicks game. You got off of work and went, dropping everything to see him.
He said it that night, in the parking lot, in the car, after you yelled at him for getting in a fight with that guy.
“You can’t fight other guys over me, Elvis!”
“Like hell I can’t, Y/N! No guys gonna talk to my girl like that!”
You knew already that he was the possessive type. He’d been jealous before with you, angry when some guy would try to flirt with you, he’d hold you too close at Club Handy, making sure no guy had the opportunity to grab you even though everyone there already knew you were his girl, but it was never as it was in this moment.
“Elvis, I am not your girl. We are not together right now,” you shouted back. You immediately regretted it. There was hurt in his eyes.
He hung his head low. Nodding slow. His jet black hair fell over his forehead. Your reaction was immediate.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m sorry,” you grabbed his hand and moved closer on the front bench of his cadillac. Your hand reached around to hold his cheek and move his face so he was looking at you again. His sad brooding eyes that you knew too well were enough to break a girl’s heart. You were certain yours had.
“Elvis, please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t-I didn’t mean that,” you cupped his face. His hand reached up and wrapped around your wrist, gently pulling your hands off of him. He placed his large hand on your face, pulling it closer to his. His nose brushed yours.
You could feel his breath against your lips. Steady breaths, the rhythm of his breathing in tandem with the beating of his heart.
“Y/N, my wallflower, I want you to be my girl. I want you to be my girl forever, and-and I’m afraid the more we keep doing this, this, this on again and off again thing, it’ll blow up in our faces. I keep going further and further away from you and I’m-I’m afraid the distance is gonna drive us apart for good, baby.” Your mouth went dry, your heart stopped beating. “I love you,” he said. “I don’t ever wanna be apart from you.”
You said “I love you,” too, and that night you agreed to go steady. You had faith that it would work out this time, and it seemed like it really would, until he was forced to enroll in the army.
It hurt Elvis. The world didn’t love him for who he was. They wanted a different him, and going to the military, putting his life at risk, was the way to get into their good graces. He broke up with you because of it, though you knew he didn’t want to, but you knew it would be for the better. It was complicated, but Elvis was complicated.
On the night before he left for Germany, after he said those three words, he crumbled. He was crushed by this twist of fate, he didn’t want to be a soldier, he didn’t want to leave you. His mama had just died. His soul was taken from him. But he had to, and so you held him close to your heart and slept curled into one another, clinging to each other like your life depended on it.
And then the sun rose and you waved goodbye to him and didn’t see him again for two years.
That was the first time you were really deemed “Elvis’s ex.”
Opening the newspaper and seeing the name Priscilla Beaulieu in connection with Elvis Presley really threw you for a loop. He found someone else?
It hurt really bad that time. It was the first time ever you saw him with another girl since the pair of you met all those years ago, in 1956, when you were just seventeen bringing sandwiches to your brother. Sure, he was with other girls in movies and you were forced to see him kiss them, and sure, he was dancing on stage with throngs of women at his feet and you were forced to watch it happen. But those weren’t real. He was acting and performing.
You were certain that even when you weren’t “dating” that he was still with you at the heart. Whatever he did with his hips during your off again moments you didn’t want to know, and you really never did. The papers didn’t print hook ups, so you never experienced this feeling before.
What might The Good Wife, Y/N Y/L/N, do without him now?
The Good Wife?! You weren’t his wife! And that’s all they could come up with? Sure, you weren’t more than a secretary who cooked for her family, who were growing old and more than deserving of a warm meal mind you, and gardened on the weekends and cut sandwiches for her brother, but that didn’t make you some homemaker, stay at home, little housewife.
Did it? You gulped when you put the paper down. Was Elvis bored with me? For being so… simple?
Who was this Priscilla Beaulieu anyway? Some exotic French girl? You flipped the page over and your eyes bulged out of your head at the sight of her. Fourteen?! You felt like a heart attack was approaching as you slammed the paper shut, crunching it in your fist, and stormed off. What the hell could a fourteen year old have that I don’t?
“Screw Elvis Presley,” you fumed, shoving the paper into a bin.
That night you went out with friends looking to recover from the blow to your gut that was finding out Elvis—your Elvis—had a new girl. You weren’t exactly looking to find someone else, but you knew you were trying to seek revenge on Elvis, even if he would never know it happened.
You were tagged “Elvis’s ex,” though and too few men saw you as the girl you really were. They’d assumed that because you were Elvis the Pelvis’s girlfriend for so long that you’d for sure be one to lay. Most men you came into contact with during that time thought that, and you were livid each time when what you thought was a nice conversation would turn into an invitation back to their place.
Soon after, Elvis returned. You weren’t keen on seeing him right away and took every measure not to let him catch you on the phone or walking the streets of Memphis on the way to work. But it was inevitable. He came to your work and flirted his way past the front desk to get inside to you. That’s when he begged your boss to steal you for lunch early, his charm and celebrity sealing the deal. Against your will, he sat you in a booth at a diner and explained it all.
“Priscilla is just a little girl with a crush.”
“Those photos are out of context.”
You tried to be stubborn but his very presence pricked tears at your eyes. Besides, you were well aware that the press was good at spinning stories.
You agreed to seeing him for a date, and then another, and then another, and soon enough you were back to your normal life together.
Him jetting out to Hollywood to film a movie. Him getting on a bus and traveling for a show.
You putting on a blouse and blush in the morning, packing a lunch, and catching the bus into town. You were living at Graceland at this point, no longer living on the farm in Mississippi or at that shabby little apartment you rented during school.
Elvis wanted to come home to you, so he moved you into his home and it was quaint, for the most part. You moved into his bedroom, filled the drawers with your clothes, left your scent on the pillows.
He loved to sleep beside you. He loved to feel your body next to his. He loved to wake up next to you. He loved to smell your hair. He loved to put his head in the crook of your neck and kiss you lightly.
Living with Elvis was escape from reality. Living at Graceland was heaven. Especially when Elvis was actually there.
During that time in your life, Elvis was very busy. Like, very busy. He was making films left and right, performing shows left and right, completing every obligation that the Colonel and his friends requested of him. Elvis wasn’t home very often. He lived a lot in Hollywood, which saddened you, because you really did miss him much.
One time, you remember being alone at Graceland with no one but the staff, spending the day gardening, living in the big house, wishing he would just be your boyfriend, not the world's boyfriend.
But it couldn’t be possible. You knew it couldn’t.
But you could imagine what it would be like, to keep him to yourself, to wake up every single morning to his face, to his soft hair, to his arms around you. You imagined what it would be like to feel him embrace you from behind as you cook breakfast, lips on your neck, hands on your hips. For a split second your mind even dared to imagine a round belly on your body and a baby kicking inside it, his hands splayed across it, rubbing your pregnant stomach.
You swallowed that thought down quickly, fumbling with the watering can you were holding. You blushed. There’s no way that fantasy could come true. You weren’t gonna get pregnant any time soon, not with you still being a virgin.
You fumbled with the watering can again, wobbling as you stood up from the flowerbed you were kneeling down in. God, you didn’t want to be a virgin anymore. Thinking about having Elvis’s babies was something that you didn’t envision turning you on like it did, but it certainly worked.
You grabbed the can and started making your way to the front of the house. You flattened out your dress, shaking the thoughts of Elvis impregnating you out of your mind.
But your thoughts quickly came crashing back when you saw him, your man, your Elvis, leaning against his Cadillac, long black trouser-clad legs crossed over the other. The watering can was the first to fall, then the spade and shovel. You dropped all of your tools at the sight of him, too stunned.
His smile grew ten times the size. “Hi there, little mama.”
Your stomach turned. God, you missed him.
You ran to him, jumping into his arms, legs wrapped around his waist. His hands fell to your bum, holding you up.
“Woahhh, there, wallflower,” he chuckled, almost falling back at the sudden impact.
You placed kisses all over his face.
“Well, I missed you too, baby,” he cooed into your ear, pressing a big kiss to your cheek. He set you down and ran his hand through your hair, the other firm on your hip. “Let me get a look at ya, make sure this is all real.”
“I’m real. Are you real? You’re the one who’s been away so long.” You nearly cry, your eyes watering and lip quivering.
He pulls you in for a tighter hug. “Oh, baby, don’t cry. I’m home now, honey.”
“I know,” you said and nuzzled your head into his chest. “I just missed you.”
He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, humming against your skin. “Let’s go in.”
You nodded and untangled yourself from him. He grabbed a suitcase in one hand and yours in the other and guided you into the house in gentle silence.
The door clicked shut behind you. He turned to you, holding your hand, backing you against the wall slowly. You smiled up at him, eyelashes batting.
“Hi,” he replied just as soft. His hands gripped your hip, bunching your dress up a bit. You bit your lip, eyes flashing down to his perfect pink bows.
“So pretty today,” he bent his head down to your ear, whispering.
“Thank you,” you blushed, shivers sending down your spine at the feeling of his lips on your ear.
“What you been up to all pretty like this?” his lips touched the skin behind your ear, pressing a kiss to it before bringing his head back up to look at you.
“Just gardening,” you gulped.
He nodded, a smirk on his lips. “Yeah? My wallflower planting flowers.” He bent his head to the other side of your head now, lips touching your neck, wet and hot on your skin, barely touching, just grazing. You let your mouth hang open as his hips started slowly gyrating.
“Oh,” the quiet moan fell from your lips.
“Oh?” he repeated, mocking you softly. His kisses became more passionate, no more grazing. His tongue swiped across your skin, marking the spot he wants the most, before he opened his plump lips and began to suck.
“Gah,” you moaned. His hand tightened on your hip, his crotch pressed into you. You could feel the wetness in your panties, which were already damp from your previous thoughts. You rolled your hips against him, desperate for more. “Fuck,” you moaned. “Fuck, Elvis.” Your pussy was so wet.
He chuckled, sucking your neck one last time and then tugging it with his teeth before letting it go. “What’s got you so eager, baby?” His eyes looked into yours and he could see the desperation in them. Wide, dilated, hungry. “Fuck, baby, you need me, huh?”
You squirmed against him, nodding fervently. “Yes, please, Elvis. Need you please.”
He nodded, kissing you passionately, madly, deeply. Your hands wound their way into his hair, pulling him as closely as you could to you, needing to feel him. He bunched your skirt up some more, sneaking a hand beneath it and clamping down on your thigh.
“Up,” he whispered into your mouth, and you lifted your thigh to wrap around him. He nuzzled his body in between your thighs, opening your legs up around him. His hand felt up your lifted thigh, the other one holding you steady at the hip. Your skin was so soft, so smooth, so delicate. He hasn’t forgotten what it was like to be buried between your legs at night, lapping your sweet juices up, neck warmed by your thighs. His body between them was hot and urgent, his cock hard as a rock, he wanted to taste you. He’d longed to taste you, to lick you, to eat you for the past several months now. He’d take his cock in his hand at night and imagine you sitting on his face, small hands gripping his shoulders, hips moving uncontrollably and he kisses your cunt again and again, tongue tucked away into your tight hole.
He kissed your lips hard and passionate, moving them along down your jaw and neck. He dropped to his knees, letting your leg fall on his shoulder, your dress covering him. You felt his finger prod at your panties, deftly swiping them to the side. One single finger slid up your cunt, from your hole to your clit and back, swirling your juices around. Your body twitched, shivers down your spine.
“Oh, Elvis,” a moan came right from the back of your throat, so coarse, so thick, so coated in sex. You could feel wetness on your thigh, kisses trailing their way up to the top, to meet the apex that called for him.
You didn’t know what to do with your hands. He was under your dress, the wall was barely grabbable.
You began to bunch the dress up, trying to collect it so you could weave your fingers in his hair, see him on his knees for you, see his lips on your skin.
When you pulled your skirt up, letting the cold air grace the back of his neck, Elvis growled, biting down on your thigh. He pushed two surprise fingers into your cunt and began pumping without letting you adjust. You gasped out loud, dropping your dress instinctively.
“Elvis, oh my god,” you mewled.
He kissed quickly up the rest of your thigh, hand gripping the underside of your knee and holding it up to create more space for his head, and then he kissed your clit, fingers still pumping relentlessly into you. His tongue flicked out at it. You bit your lip, head falling back against the wall, eyes slammed shut.
“Oh my god, that feels so fucking good,” you moaned loudly. “Elvis, oh my fucking god.”
You couldn’t believe it. There you were in the foyer of the Graceland mansion, barely through front door, pressed against the wall with Elvis Presley on his knees eating you out like a man starving for food. Your leg propped up and over his shoulder, your body barely able to stay upright, turning more and more into jello by the second.
In the other room, one of the cooks, Mary, quietly poked her head around the archway, eyes widening in astonishment at the sight of you and Elvis, you gripping his head, spread against the wall and devoured, and quickly darted away.
Neither you or Elvis heard as the back door opened and closed, he couldn’t hear anything with the earmuffs that were your thighs wrapped around him and you couldn’t possibly think straight. All of your senses were disabled at the moment. The only thing you knew was Elvis Presley’s tongue on your clit and fingers deep in your pussy.
Elvis removed his fingers, your juices dripping out with them, and licked a long stripe up your cunt. He swirled his tongue around your clit, flicking it twice, before licking into your hole. He stuck his tongue completely in, your thighs trembled, and he used his hand to press you against the wall even more, slamming your risen thigh into it to keep them open.
“Elvis, Elvis, Elvis, gahh,” you moaned loud and unashamedly.
Outside, Mary’s eyes were still the size of marbles when she discovered Joe Esposito and Red West striding up the back lawn.
“No, no, no, no,” Mary ran to them. “Do not go in there, boys.” She shook her hand up at the house, eyes crazy.
Red laughed down at the older woman, clapping a hand on her shoulder, and asking with a tongue that drips in sarcasm, “Everything alright, Mary?”
Joe was about to let out a loud laugh when he heard it—the exact thing that sent Mary running, “Ohhhhh fuck me, Elvis!”
It was you crying out, moaning so loud your voice echoed through the whole damn house.
Red and Joe shrugged at one another, both breaking out into grins. “Good for him,” Red said casually.
“I think you mean good for her by the sound of it,” Joe said laughing.
Meanwhile, in the house, Elvis was upright against the wall, hands clasping your waist, rocking his hips against yours as you tried to stay standing. Elvis just brought you to one of the strongest orgasms you ever experienced and you could barely tell where you were as you rode it out. Your vision nearly left you and you needed to pull Elvis up quick to support you. He immediately started kissing you, pulling your body into his, grinding his rock hard cock against you.
“You mean it?” he groaned into your ear, rutting against you. You nodded fervently, pushing your hips to meet his, craving his crotch on yours. “You really want me to fuck you?”
You groaned. You were practically still riding out your orgasm, the after waves running through you. Your wetness was still there, juices dripping down your thighs, and the more you and Elvis stayed there gyrating, the more you needed him.
“I need you, Elvis. I need to be close to you. I need you inside of me, please, baby, please give me your cock. I-I-I need it-I” he smashed his lips to yours to shut you up and roughly bunched your dress at your hips.
You couldn’t even process his movements, his hands falling under your dress, strongly ripping apart your panties, letting them drop to the floor with ease. You moaned loud at the action.
Then you heard his belt clinking, his zipper unzipping. You were getting more and more hot and wet the closer you got to him fucking you. With every step of the way you were growing more needy for him, more desperate.
He shook his head, placing a passionate kiss on your mouth. “Fuck, baby, you’re so hot for me, aren’t you.” You nodded quickly, too quick. It made his ego large, his dimples forming with the cheekiest of grins. “You make me so horny, baby.” You could cry the way you needed him.
He pulled his pants down till they were around his ankles and stepped out of them quickly, removing his shoes and kicking them somewhere in the process.
“Elvis, faster… need you inside a me.”
He clenched his jaw, pulling his underwear off, and gripping your ass so that you were steady. Your legs were wrapped around his hips, back against the wall.
“You ready, baby? S’gonna hurt.” He looked into your eyes and swallowed thick. He really did not want you to say you weren’t.
The way you looked, so fucked out, so desperate, you were heavenly. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop himself.
You nodded. “I know it’s gonna hurt, but I’m ready,” you whispered. He nodded, dropped his head to your neck, one hand wrapped around his cock, pumping slowly, prepping himself.
“You wanna go upstairs?” he asked
You shook your head, nose scrunching.
“You wanna get fucked against a wall for your first time?” he chuckled and slipped a finger into your pussy, scissoring your hole a bit to stretch you out.
You groaned and threw your head back again. He added two more fingers and you moved your hips in desperation for friction.
“Just wanna stretch you first, baby. S’okay, just be patient for me.”
“Mmmm, Elvis, please.” He could feel your walls squeezing him and knew he would need to warm you up some more. You may have just come on his tongue and he may have just used two slender fingers to fuck your hole but he could feel how tight you were and wanted to make sure things would go well.
You were dripping. Your juices, your cum, his saliva, so many fluids were mixing on his fingers as he scissored them inside you.
He brought his thumb to your clit and rubbed soft circles on it. If he didn’t think you were wet before, you were gushing now.
“Okay,” he brought his forehead to press against yours. “I’m gonna put the tip in.” He pulled his fingers out from you with a pop, and wetness leaked out. He looked down at your glistening cunt and smirked. Fuck he could not wait to be inside there.
And so he didn’t, he guided his mushroom head to your hole that he tried to stretch and pushed it in. He needed to inhale at the feeling, readjusting his hand on your ass to keep you up.
“Open your eyes,” he whispered. You did as he requested and your fiery eyes were met with his blazing one. The wanton passion shared between you could not be denied.
He pushed into you, and you nearly rolled your head back, eyes threatening to shut again. “Keep them open, baby.”
You nodded and kissed him, moaning as he bottomed out into you.
“Holy fuck,” you moaned. His hips stilled inside you. He was completely inside of you now. You two were connected completely for the first time.
He rolled his hips to test the waters and you gasped.
“Fuck,” you groaned. “Hurts.” Your eyebrows knit together and water formed at your eyes. “Hurts, Elvis, fuck.”
“I’m sorry, wallflower. I know, I’m staying gentle with you.”
He wanted to buck his hips against you and break you in half with his cock. He’s wanted to do that since he met you, really. But he has exhibited the most self restraint over the course of your tumultuous relationship.
He looked down to see where you were joined, his cock speared into your cunt. After all this waiting, all those years of keeping her pure and clean and honest and innocent, he thought, this is the way it happens. Pinned to the wall, mewling like a little kitten.
He had to admit, being loyal to you was a challenge, and perhaps that was the reason he finally decided it was time to throw in the towel and stop resisting you. He refused to cheat on you and he wanted to stay with you, he really wanted to try this commitment thing with you full time this time, no breaks, no pauses, no on again off again.
But it was difficult, and Elvis is a man with needs. The amount of women that want him, that express this very desire to him every single day, he was a strong man just for saying no.
Since he came back from Germany, he was loyal. It’d been only six months, sure, but he was loyal.
But by god, he was horny. It didn’t matter to him if you weren’t a virgin on your wedding night anymore; he’d still dress you in white anyway. No one would need to know.
“Okay. I think I’m ready,” you spoke, your voice soft and pretty.
Elvis nearly lost his head. Truly he could have watched it roll away at that moment because the sound of your angelic voice was too much to handle.
He kissed you delicately, remembering that you’re his angel, and lifting you off the wall, he carried you to the couch, cock still inside of you.
You furrowed your brow, confused.
“What are you doing, Elvis? I said I was ready.” you looked up at him with the plumpest, poutiest lips and the widest, roundest eyes and he had to clutch his heart to stop it from coming out of his chest.
He bit his lip quick then grinned reassuringly. “I know you are, baby, but I want you to be comfortable and I want it to be good and I wanna make love to you, wallflower. Don’t wanna fuck you rough against a wall right now.”
You swallowed, not sure what to say. He was slowly rocking his hips against you, cock sliding in and out, in and out, slick coating his shaft.
“You don’t?” you said, sounding sad.
He chuckled, kissing your forehead. His hand held your hip.
“Oh, I do, baby, trust me, and I will, but tonight I’m making love to you and making sure you know you’re mine.”
You nodded, agreeing. “I love you.”
That night was the first time you ever made love to Elvis Presley, and certainly not the last. During the next several months after that, you and Elvis had sex whenever you could, wherever you could. In the bathtub, in the shower, on the kitchen counter, on a pool chair, in the pool, on a hill in the grass, down at the creek, in his car, on his car, at the drive in, in the cinema house. It was relentless. You were addicted to each other. Graceland became one big sex zone and you loved it. The Memphis Mafia barely showed up unannounced anymore, to your pleasure, in fear that they’d find you fucking. It was like you and Elvis were truly living your little fantasy, playing house like you’d dreamed with no one around to stop you.
You felt like a goddess and each time you made love, he made sure to tell you that.
But all good things come to an end and Elvis Presley had to go off and be Elvis Presley again.
And so you went back to your life of seeing him for a little and seeing him for none at all, working a little at the ad firm. You’d reduced your hours. Being a secretary was no longer your dream. You wanted to be a mom, really, but you couldn’t say that just yet. So you became a gardener, just around Graceland really. But a gardener nonetheless.
Magazines would post pictures of Elvis and his co-stars. Always female and always flirty and always long legged. Every time you saw it intense jealousy would come over you. It burned a hole in your stomach. Don’t they know he’s taken?
He’d come home and he’d mention it before you’d even ask. “The girls are for publicity, baby. Colonel wants us, you and me, quiet so the movie can sell. I have to act that way.”
You’d shake your head but accept it anyway, and as a treat he’d eat you out for hours. Sometimes when you were getting makeup-sex, or reward-sex, or forget-about-the-problem-sex, you’d think maybe it would finally be the time he’d come in you—that way you could get pregnant and let those girls in those movies know that your man is your man, not theirs. Make him a daddy and your relationship will be permanently permanent was your thought process.
But that plan never came to fruition, as much as you wanted to, and as much as it almost did. Elvis stopped using condoms at some point during your relationship. Really, he didn’t start with it. The first time you had sex he didn’t use one, but that was because he knew taking it slow would allow him to pull out in time. But after that you two fucked like rabbits and he knew he wasn’t quick enough to pull out every time. But then when he left and was gone for a while, he missed you and wanted to be as close as possible. He ditched the condoms and promised to pull out, assuming you were the one that didn’t want to get pregnant.
One time you told him it didn’t matter and that he could if he wanted to, but he pulled out anyway. You kept your desires to yourself, not wishing to scare him with how badly you wanted to be pregnant with his baby. Still, every time you had sex, you’d wish he would just forget to pull out.
Another way to get the tabloids to stop putting pressure on him to appear interested in his co-stars was to get married. You knew you wanted to and you thought he did too. After all, he’d always tell you that he wanted you forever. That you’d be together always. You thought maybe becoming his bride would change things, but you knew that was a more difficult topic to present to him than the baby thing. So, again, you kept your mouth shut, too shy, too reserved, too proud, to bring it up.
Then, 1964 came. Ann Margret was cast alongside your long term boyfriend, who was finally your true boyfriend without pauses, in a film called Viva Las Vegas.
It would be just like the others, you thought. Some beautiful actress, they’ll pretend like it’s a backstage thing too, blah blah blah.
But then, came the tabloids.
You were home for the summer, helping your mama and daddy with crops and cows and the like. Elvis wasn’t at Graceland during the time anyway, so you felt it was a good time to go home. And it was, because finding that newspaper in the house that you shared with him would have been more heartbreaking, more cruel, more embarrassing than anything else. At least, in Southaven, you wouldn’t have to face the Memphis Mafia and their smug faces. Or Mary and her sympathy, or see the furniture that he loved you on or the doorway that he walked through or the towels he’d dry his hair with.
You knew it was true this time. You just did.
After years of rationalizing the photos of him and some girl, you knew these were real. They were spotted in the background of someone else’s photo… they weren’t posing for the picture, they weren’t meant to get caught. They were truly like that.
Your heart had sunk to the bottom of your stomach.
You were going back to being one of Elvis Presley’s exes.
But this time, the press was more interested in your side of the story than they were the last time, and you found yourself the center of much unwanted attention.
authors note: hi guys!! i know this was super duper crazy long but thank you so much for reading! there is most definitely a part two for this coming soon as we will see what life is like for Elvis and the reader after the break up. makeup sex? maybe you’ll just have to read to find out
also, feel free to read my stories as both austin and real elvis! i have both in mind all the time so doesn’t matter to me
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