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Panties had been instrumental in the start of your relationship. Your panties, to be precise. Thrown on stage in a moment of what seemed afterwards like complete madness, but while it was happening presented itself as the only logical response to the sight on said stage. You’d never done anything like that before, but then you’d never seen anything like Elvis before, either. Women around you were going wild, and yours weren’t the only pair of underwear that had landed on the wooden floor at his feet. But yours were the only ones that had resulted in a frantic search for their owner, with the Mafia scattered to the four winds, under strict instructions that you had to be found. Elvis had picked them up and, probably a little hopped up on the excitement of the performance, the buzz of the crowd and a big pre-gig dose of something whizzy, taken a deep inhale. It had resulted in a good deal more screaming, and you remember watching him grin that famous lop-sided grin, looking like a naughty little boy, before you almost passed out with the insanity of the moment. Digging your nails into your wrist had just about kept you conscious but your brief flirtation with fainting meant you missed him balling them up in one hand and slipping them behind Charlie, his typical hiding place for items he wanted to take with him rather than let be swept up with the rest of whatever people tossed at him and taken to wherever bras and panties go to die.
Whatever effects had combined together to make him demand your presence backstage had worn off sufficiently for him to look kind of bashful when you finally met, and he hadn’t even mentioned the panties, just cutely charmed you into bed with his gentlemanly southern ways. You were surprised to find yourself invited to join him on the rest of the tour, and it had been a whirlwind experience so far - planes, cars, screaming fans and sleeping until the afternoon. In a rare vulnerable moment he’d shown you the panties and you’d been amazed that he’d not only kept them, but still had them now and held them with a kind of reverence that was oddly touching. He’d gone down on you afterwards, mumbling into your pussy something about your intoxicating smell before bringing you tumbling into ecstasy with his expert tongue. You’re not very experienced sexually, and you’d certainly downplayed your experience when he’d asked, realising intuitively that he’d prefer an innocent little flower to a sullied one, but you’re still surprised that it’s his mouth that has been so intimately acquainted with that little mound between your legs, rather than the usual painful poking that you’d endured with other men. In fact, you’ve had little to do with him down there, and you’re too overwhelmed by his personality and set in your role as the demure girl by his side to dare ask about it.
Then you get to Jackson and everything changes.
You’re not sure if it’s the glass of champagne you drink between the afternoon concert and the evening one, you’re not a drinker usually and the bubbles seem to go to your head and float about in your belly at the same time. Or maybe it’s the way he looks during that afternoon show, his suit tight in all the right places, pulling across the pooch of his belly, emphasising the broadness of his shoulders, the curve of his ass. It could even be the pair of panties he picks up onstage and grins about, the pair that this time you clearly see balled up and dropped behind Charlie. Or maybe it’s the glimpse you got of him as he got changed into the jumpsuit before the show, the glimpse he didn’t intend for you to see, a flash of naked skin before he pulled on a pair of small white briefs. A look at a part of him he hasn’t seen fit to show you yet, for reasons best known to him and even then, maybe not that well known.
Most likely it’s all of those things combined, but whatever makes you do it you find yourself less concerned with his opinion of you than you had been before. A feeling that this might all be fleeting, that you should act before it slips from your fingers takes hold in your brain and you can’t shake it. Little things you’d noticed over the past couple of weeks stack up into a pile of information that doesn’t quite make the full picture, but convinces you that your weird, bottom of the belly feeling is correct. So when you find yourself alone with him, a few minutes before he’s due to go to his dressing room, you decide fuck it.
“Would you take something of mine with you onstage?”
Elvis looks up from the study of the carpet he’d been undertaking as he paced back and forth across the bedroom. He’s not sure what he’s doing in here, with just you, when he’s supposed to be getting ready so soon. Maybe it’s that he finds you somehow calming, usually. It’s not working so well today. His nerves are getting the better of him.
“Whaddya mean, honey?”
“Well I know you like my panties.” You colour immediately on mentioning undergarments, something you don’t usually do.
“Jumpsuits ain’t exactly got pockets.” He smiles in that way he’s been doing more of lately, almost smug, certainly superior. Like he thinks your brain is only full of rainbows and unicorns and nothing practical like pockets.
Standing now, you make your way towards him until you’re so close the smell of him surrounds you, you can feel his breath on your hair, see the grey roots emerging from his sideburns.
“You wear underwear with them though, don’t you?” Batting your lashes, trying for your most innocent face.
He stares down at you. Goddamn. You’re so pretty it's unholy. What on earth did you just say?
“I wear underthings, darlin’. Not that ya need ta concern yerself with those.”
“Then you could wear my panties instead.”
There’s a long pause that stretches out for what seems like at least an hour, but can really only be a matter of seconds. He looks, uncomprehending, and you look back, not willing to repeat or explain, trying your very best to hold your ground, cool, calm and collected. It’s hard to say why this idea sprang, fully-formed and quite unbidden, into your mind, but it did and you think, why not ask? What’s the worst that can happen? This whole crazy adventure comes to an end a little earlier than it was going to anyway. You have to go home eventually. May as well be now.
“Ah don’t think they’d fit.”
That’s all he says. Not, no. Not, what in God’s name are ya talkin’ about, little girl? Not, I ain’t wearin’ yer panties, that’s against God. Just, a practical consideration. Perhaps they’d be a little small. Well I don’t know, you think to yourself. It’s not as if I’ve had more than a five second flash of what it is that would need to fit inside them. But they’re not tiny panties. You have no idea how you’d get tiny panties past your mama, who still insists on doing all of your laundry. They’re a decent size. They have frills, but they’re not flimsy.
“Why don’t you give them a try?” Accompanied by a little shrug of your shoulder. Like, it ain’t no thing.
“H-honey.” He doesn’t know what he intends to convey with that single word, slightly stammered as he feels delayed blood rush to his cheeks. He tries to open his mouth again to tell you no, to tell you his underwear is perfectly decent and does the job well, actually. “I-I w-won’t be able ta wear 'em with white.” What is going on? Why is he saying this?
“Let’s go down to the dressing room and see what other options you have.” You put a reassuring hand on his arm, and find him trembling. Drawing yourself up to your full height, not that it makes too much difference, you toss your hair back in one shake like a prize thoroughbred. “I’ll help you pick something out, once we see if they fit.”
He swallows a few times, trying to counteract the awful dryness that seems to have overtaken the inside of his mouth. A single bead of sweat makes its way down his face and he wipes at it hurriedly, clearing his throat and trying to work out how to get control back of… something… anything…
“C’mon,” you coo, your hand in his now, starting to walk towards the door and out of the room, pulling him with you. “Don’t forget them!”
He starts to get the distinct feeling that he’s outside of his own body, watching this caper going on. Watching this Elvis picking up those lilac ruffled panties, the same ones that he’d smelt onstage and being so captivated by he had to find their owner, and walking off with them in one hand, towed by you with your oddly determined little strides. This Elvis seems quite content to do whatever you say, following you to the dressing room and telling the guys there that they can go while he figures out just what he wants to wear this evening. “Ah sweated clean through that suit earlier,” he tells them, by way of explanation.
A naughty smile spreads across your face at the thought of him sweating that much again this evening, wearing your panties. You cunningly hide your face behind your hair so he doesn’t see, then busy yourself with the rack of suits in front of you. He’s brought a few with him on this tour, and you like them all. Running your fingers over them, enjoying the feel, you stop at a flash of navy blue and carefully part the suit and the one in front of it, pulling the navy one out to look at properly. It’s beautiful. Almost the complete opposite of the suit he’d worn that afternoon, they’re like night and day. The large, silver bird motif on the front really shines under the lights. There’s a belt with it too, chunky, with chains trailing off it. Chains that will bounce on his ass as he gyrates to the beat.
“What about this one?”
He finds himself smiling. He likes that suit, and it seems fitting that it’s the reverse of the one he wore that afternoon. Daytime and nighttime looks.
“Sure, honey.”
You positively beam. “Why don’t you try it on?”
He starts to nod before his brain can properly compute the order of things and realise that means he has to do something about his underwear first. Especially considering he’s not currently wearing any.
“I uh… honey ah need some privacy.”
It’s the most together he’s sounded since you started this whole thing, the most convincing, and you find yourself caving, nodding and leaving the room without complaint. As soon as you’re on the other side of the door you silently curse yourself for giving in quite so easily. What happened to your resolve? You press yourself up against the door, hoping to somehow hear what’s going on, even though that doesn’t make much sense. How can you hear someone getting naked or putting on clothes? But then you do hear something, grumbling and huffing, possibly even profanities. Holding your breath, you chance a soft knock.
“Wait!” The fierceness knocks you back a couple of steps and you struggle to control your breathing for a moment.
He closes his eyes, trying to hold himself together with one leg in the jumpsuit and the other still outside. The panties fit. Well, kind of. It had been a tight squeeze and he doesn’t really want to look at himself wearing them, so he’s trying to pull the jumpsuit on as quickly as he can without looking in the mirror. It’s finally zipped and he clasps the belt around his middle, trying to suck himself in. The panties don’t help with that, but then the pants he’s usually coerced into wearing don’t either, so he’s not sure it makes much difference. He turns around and about, looking at himself from all angles, trying to be sure that there’s no way anyone would know, from looking at him. The ruffles on those panties had sort of stretched and flattened down when he’d finally managed to get them on, and the material of the jumpsuit is dark and thick. They can’t be noticeable from the outside.
“Okay.” He tries his best to sound commanding, but his brain keeps unhelpfully reminding him that he’s wearing girls’ panties, and that seems to somehow take the edge of anything he might’ve been trying to be.
You tentatively turn the handle and push the door open. He seems to take up the whole room, standing there in the suit, midway through putting on a choker, eyes slowly taking you in as you step inside, relieved that there is actually room in there for you, too.
“Look okay?” He asks, holding his arms out at his sides and looking at you, almost shyly.
“You look gorgeous,” you say, because he does. You’re pleased to see him crack a proper smile at that, but it quickly fades.
“Ya better go, honey. I gotta be onstage soon.” His foot has started to tap on the floor, one hand flutters by his thigh.
“Do they fit?” You’re whispering, for some reason.
“Sure.” The ghost of a smirk settles on his face and then flits away again.
You sidle up closer. “Can I see? After the show?”
His mouth opens, closes again, works for a while, hooded eyes not really but kind of looking at you. “Ah-ah-I…”
“Please?” Capturing your bottom lip with your teeth, you do everything in your power to convince him. Eyelashes are batted, breasts are pushed up as high as they’ll go, a hand runs over his upper arm. Letting your lip go, feeling the blood rush back to it and knowing it’ll be that bit redder and more swollen, you use it to pout.
“Alright.” He relents, unable to resist those lips, decadently cherubic and begging, pleading with everything in them to be kissed. His hand caresses your face as he does it, feeling like he’s sliding kamikaze-style into oblivion, forgetting the show and the crowd and all of the lyrics to every song he’s ever known, his tongue in your mouth, his hand at the base of your neck now, thumb brushing your collarbone.
And then he feels tightness in his groin, restriction, his dick beginning to rise and then being cruelly restrained. Ouch.
“Ya better go.” His face is flushed, you notice that as soon as you part. Yours probably is too, your heart hammering from the intensity of the kiss, wondering if he’s ever kissed you quite like that before.
“Have a good show!”
“Come up and kiss me, won’tcha?”
“‘Course.”
***
The minutes before he’d walked onstage had seemed more charged than usual, and he bursts into C.C. Rider in almost double time, taking the band a little by surprise. They adjust and the show continues its winding way through hit after hit, Love Me Tender bringing you back to him for the most chaste of kisses, but even that makes him a little sore. The soreness comes and goes, abating when he’s bored, going through the motions, doing the little medleys he feels obliged to include but stopped enjoying years ago, and returning full force when he’s really giving it his all, singing songs he believes in, enjoying himself.
When he gets offstage all he wants to do is get out of this suit, he’s so sweaty and hot and uncomfortable and those panties were definitely designed for a girl and not for a man, especially not a man who’s seen thinner days, and seems to be more excited than he might’ve been for months now. He gulps down half a bottle of water, looking around the room at the assembled group of people, friends, family, hangers on.
“Ah’m gonna wind down. See y’all in the mornin’.” He waves a careless hand around to suggest that they might all want to go their separate ways too, and then grabs hold of yours and walks with purposeful strides towards the elevator. Joe follows.
“Ah’d like a little alone time with mah woman, Joe.”
The other man looks at him, surprised. He can’t remember the last time Elvis had requested to be alone with a woman earlier than midnight. He probably just wants to read to her. All this money and fame and all these gorgeous women, and that’s all he ever seems to do, read to them. Guess the benzos stop him from getting it up.
“Sure thing, EP. See ya tomorrow.”
He leaves with a little salute and Elvis nods, pushing the button for the elevator and then calmly walking you inside. His heart beats a little faster now it’s just the two of you and he can feel some of the effects of the pills wearing off. He doesn’t say anything as the metal box makes its way up the floors, just sort of looks through you, eyes unfocussed. The doors open and you walk out, watching Elvis have the same conversation with the men stationed outside of his suite. You think they’re bodyguards, although you can’t remember their names. They agree to stay where they are, rather than coming in for a drink or a game of cards or whatever else they usually get up to at this time of the evening.
Safely inside the suite, just the two of you, you look at him properly for the first time since you’d come up for your onstage smooch. He’s bent over, getting something out of the minibar and you have to hold in a groan at the way his pants are clinging to his ass, those little chains which had definitely bounced earlier exactly like you knew they would, dangling down, decadent, like one more bauble on a perfectly decorated tree. He straightens, water bottle in hand, and sees you looking at him.
“What?”
Now he’s turned and he’s no longer got one of those stage scarves around his neck, the sweaty, hairiness of his chest is fully exposed. Your bottom lip is back between your teeth again, your hands on his chest, resting on either side of the opening of the suit.
“You look really good.”
“Ah look sweaty, honey. Ah need a shower.” He can’t help smiling at you though, kissing the end of your nose. “Ya enjoy the show?”
You nod quickly. “I loved it. Did you?”
A frown knots his features for a second and then it’s gone again. He doesn’t think anyone has ever asked him that before. Had he enjoyed the show?
“Yeah ah did. Gotta make sure ah still got that nervous energy, y’know, honey. Don’t wanna go on stale. People pay ta see me and ah gotta make sure they get their money’s worth. Wouldn’t want ‘em ta just think ah’m goin’ through the motions.”
“No-one thinks you’re going through the motions.” You slide your hands down until they’re at the bottom of the wings of the phoenix. Your thumb jiggles the zipper of the suit and you look up, silently begging.
“Sometimes ah wish ah didn’t have ta do those medleys.” He takes a swig of water and then puts the bottle down. “Same old thing every time but ah can’t let ‘em down. Can’t have someone come see me, desperate ta hear Hound Dog an’ ah don’t do it. An’ they’re sayin’ ta their friends, he’s too good ta do the old stuff now, too good fer Hound Dog…”
You grip the zipper firmly and start to slowly pull it down until you collide with the top of the belt. He looks at you, like he’s trying to understand you, as if you’re an alien life form whose motivations he can’t comprehend, doing something completely inexplicable that possibly needs to be studied.
“You’re so good to your fans. I know they all appreciate you.”
He keeps watching as you turn your attention to his belt now, struggling with the clasp for a minute until you figure it out, and then to his surprise you just let it go to the floor with a bang. Also to his surprise, he doesn’t chastise you or try to pick it up, he just carries on standing there, observing. Observing you looking at him, your hands mapping his body, smoothing down from his shoulders to his hips, enjoying the look of him without the belt.
“Ya really think they still like me, honey? Ah’m old now. Ah ain’t the man ah used ta be.”
You finish the job with the zipper and your breath catches at a glimpse of ruffly, lilac material peeking out.
“They love you.”
Pushing the suit back and over his shoulders, you’re pleased when he stops standing there like a block of wood and actually helps you, shrugging his way free until he’s topless, half of the jumpsuit hanging down behind him. Your hands make the same journey as earlier, fingers brushing the hair on his chest, his little belly. He’s still looking, through his lashes now, feeling like he’s caught under your spell.
When you push the suit down further, off his hips, your hands move around to cup his ass just as an excuse to touch it. And then he shifts and steps out of it and suddenly you see him there in all his glory, or almost all of it, naked but for the choker still around his neck and the panties, stretched across his groin. His dick starts to rise again, his dick which seems to be the only part of him completely convinced by this, one hundred percent on board with being confined in lilac frilly panties, not ashamed or embarrassed, just determined to stand to attention. Which, ironically, is the one thing that the panties prevent. He squints with discomfort.
Swallowing, you keep your eyes fixed on the underwear which has started to go see-through with his sweat, wondering at the way they’re bulging like they’re struggling to contain him. Trailing your fingers over them, feeling him until your hand is stroking, trying to understand the extent of him, touching the dampness there. He makes the smallest of noises, his abdominal muscles clenching. You squeeze.
“Th-th-there… y-ya’ve seen ‘em…” He’s breathy, like a girl in a skin flick, and when you look up at him his eyes are glassy, lips slightly parted.
“I like them. Do you like them?”
“Mmm.”
You giggle, giving him another squeeze and feeling him twitch in response. “Huh? I didn’t quite hear that.”
“Y-yeah.”
“Kiss me.”
Your hand is on the back of his neck, fingers in his sweaty hair as his face moves towards yours, and it feels like no time has passed since that dressing room kiss, except now he’s almost naked and you can feel him in your hand, pulsing with need.
He means to take your clothes off too, scant as they are, tiny shorts and a little top with long, bell-shaped sleeves, but somehow he hasn’t and he realises when you drop to your knees in front of him, hands on his hips, face nuzzling into his crotch. He lets out a whimper.
“You smell good.”
His hands hang limply by his sides as he watches you, taking turns nuzzling into him and mouthing the outline of his dick, making the panties even more see-through with your saliva. Your hands move to grab handfuls of his ass and your thumbs test the elastic waistband. He half-pulls back, thinking about you finally uncovering him and the way you’ll look with him actually in your mouth. He’s never thought it seemed right, a pretty innocent thing with that big ugly appendage shoved halfway down her throat. Never seemed quite like what ought to happen in the bedroom, even in the dark.
The movement barely registers, you just press forward, smelling him and almost tasting him verging on going wild with lust. Wanting to pull the panties off but wanting to keep them on forever, the way they’re holding him down is doing crazy things to you just like it’s doing to him. Eventually you decide you can’t wait any longer to see him properly, to lick the length of him, to see what happens to Elvis when you taste and touch him for real. You grab the top of the panties and pull them down, and his dick springs out and hits you in the nose.
Toppling back onto your heels, you sit there giggling uncontrollably. You should have expected that, really, but somehow you just didn’t. Having had his eyes closed, trying to gird himself against what was about to happen, Elvis hadn’t seen the incident and had barely felt it either, and is now staring at you with a rising feeling of panic in his chest.
“It ain’t that funny.” His voice comes out hoarse, and his hands are immediately around himself, trying to push his erection back down again.
“It just hit me in the face.” You’re still giggling, getting back onto your knees and peeling his hands away again, taking a good look before wrapping your mouth around the base. He moans as you do your best to repeat what you were doing earlier when it was encased in the panties, mouthing him all the way up the shaft, your hands in his.
“Oh honey.” His head is tipped back just enough to show you his beautiful pale throat, and you wish your mouth could be in two places at once, tongue licking his Adam’s apple and tonguing his balls. You show them a little attention too and you get another breathy “honey” as reward.
Tongue trailing up the underside, you see his legs shake just a fraction, and then a bit more when you take your time at the head, spiralling your tongue around, savouring his groans. You slide your lips over it now, holding his hands tightly as you let it fill your mouth and he looks down and decides he was wrong, you look perfect with his dick in your mouth like this, the way your lips curve around it, he could look at this all day every day and never be bored. It’s so beautiful that someone should take a photo, paint a picture and hang it in an art gallery, take both of you as you are and keep you in a perspex box for the world to admire.
Once you’ve got him in as far as you can manage, you start to bob up and down a little, relaxing your throat, easing yourself in, and then you take one of his hands and place it on the back of your head. Letting him decide the pace now. He holds it there lightly, determined not to make a mess of you, not to spoil how pretty you look, letting you keep bobbing and savouring the ecstasy of the feeling.
But then savouring isn’t enough. He wants more. He takes your other hand and helps you wrap it around the shaft, thinking this at least will save you from choking and spitting everywhere, murmuring “that’s right” as you slide it up and down in time with your mouth. His breathing starts to get erratic, his brain starts to get desperate, wanting that high, needing to cum. He finds the hand on the back of your head pushing you up and down, fingers curling into your hair and then using it to pull instead, dragging you up and down the shaft, so eyewateringly close he thinks he might scream.
“That’s it… that’s it honey… fuck… fuck… oh ah’m gonna…”
He means to move, to cum somewhere else, your tits maybe, but it’s been so long he misses his opportunity and he’s so far in when that pleasure bomb hits he has your head in both hands to stop you moving yourself, emptying himself right down your pretty throat. Coming to and hearing you retch, watching, outside of himself again as he lets go and pulls back and spit flows out of your mouth, you cough and pant and a wave of guilt hits him. This is why he doesn’t let girls near his dick.
“Honey. Are y’okay? Ah’m sorry.”
Down on his knees now too, a hand on your upper arm, the other trying to move your hair away from your face. You let out a final loud breath and wipe your eyes with your palms, only succeeding in spreading mascara and eyeliner across your face, and then look at him.
“I’m good.” You start to grin, and then there’s that bottom lip being bitten again. “I never did that before. Made a guy cum with my mouth.”
“Honey!” He admonishes, giving you a little shake. “Mind yer language.” You keep grinning, unable to apologise or really say anything else, feeling unreasonably proud of yourself. “Ya never did that before?” It’s quieter now, conspiratorial.
“No.”
“Seems like ya got a natural talent.”
That makes you giggle. “I better practice then. Make sure I keep it up.”
Looking like he’s about to tell you off again, his serious expression suddenly turns playful. “Not before ah say thank you.” He scoops you up, carrying you undecorously towards the bedroom.
“Ah think you’ll enjoy it.” Dropping you on the mattress and looking down, his expression wicked, eyes dark. “Ah’ve made a lotta girls cum with my mouth.”
***