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aconflagrationofmyown · 1 year

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The Great Elvis & Elaine Conspiracy of ‘58

A Sarge and lil Mama fic

Summary: Elaine’s father, Mr. Phipps’, perspective on that two week engagement

Warnings: lots of talk about wifely duties, virginity and sex-ed being withheld from a bride, Elvis continuing to be a very sweet but slightly creepy fiancé if ya think too hard about it (or think at all), grinding and an untouched male orgasm resulting in ruining pants, brief, blink and you miss it mention of entrapment

Special thanks to my darling and ever so capable beta reader @prompted-wordsmith for her plotting and her editing and her killer addition sentences 🌹

Hope y’all enjoy and don’t hold back in my comments and dms, your feedback is aqua vita. And trust the process, this got you one shot closer to that wedding night fic 😈

“Who’s gonna tell her…about her…marital duties?” Mr. Phipps, alone in his truck, asked his speedometer the question that had been tormenting him ever since Elvis informed him he was gonna marry his daughter.

Mr. Phipps missed his Eleanor every day since she passed, but the days leading up to the wedding of their only child made him miss her more than ever. Elaine was as ready and molded and perfect as any mother could have hoped for in a child, steady and good, even in Eleanor’s absence. But decorum and hostess skill and tax smarts don’t prepare you for falling into bed with a rockstar. Mr. Phipps was young once, too, and hungry, dirty, uncontainable passion for his Eleanor had created Elaine, after all. He knows the drive, the spine tingling urge, the rabid hunger of a man for a woman. It shames and terrifies him to speak of it now that object of his passion is moldering in the ground. She would have known how to phrase it in lofty, gentle, tender words that would elevate so crass an act as sex into the sacred verbiage of marriage. But she was gone.

And there was never a good time for it ever since, stupid hope had led him to believe that what his daughter didn’t know would not tempt her. Now he wished she knew more, every hint he dropped to test her knowledge she passed with flying, pearly white colors of stellar virtue. And meanwhile the days passed and Elvis Presley watched her like a man possessed, large hands already entitled to holding her own whenever they were together, his smoldering eyes raking and surveying his imminent conquest—her ripe, young body.

Mr. Phipps shuddered over ham sandwiches and asked Elaine if she believed in storks. She had laughed long and hard over her lunch before rolling her eyes in bemused exasperation with her father and returning her focus back to the list of personal items to be moved to Graceland tomorrow.

“Who’s gonna tell her?” he asked his truck, pulling into the back of the groom's mansion.

This would be his girl’s place, legal and symbolic, before the week was up. She’s a clever one, his Elaine, business savvy even in the thick of romance, just as she is terribly, terribly innocent in carnality. He has a sick feeling that Elvis, like a lotta young men including Mr. Phipps himself twenty years back, finds that combination achingly delightful. That thought always kills right in its tracks his cowardly impulse to leave it to Elvis himself to tell his bride all about it.

God knows what sorta perversion that could lead to. Eleanor would kill him, he’d kill himself if he let Elvis hurt her, shame her, defile her.

But it’s a slow death as is, trying to clear his throat and think of a way to describe phalluses going into vaginas that ain’t inappropriate for a father to relay to a daughter. These attempts always end as they begin, with his daughter looking expectantly at him and offering lozenges, confused as to why he interrupts her preparations when he has nothing to say.

He thinks Divine inspiration has struck when upon pulling up to the back of Graceland he sees Mary, the hired cook who’s more family than employee, coming out to help him unload Elaine’s dishes and servingware. Eleanor’s heirlooms, famillair china pieces of no great value beyond sentimentality, but Mr. Phipps loves his daughter for the fact she moves her mama's dishes into the fully stocked mansion, solely because they were her mama’s.

Elvis had cleared a place beside Gladys’ newer collection with his own two hands, pressing kisses to Elaine’s forehead and swearing his home was her home now. The married cutlery in the drawer proved it.

Mr. Phipps couldn’t deny the boy's sincerity when it came to his feelings for Elaine. Those feelings gushed out of him in gifts and promises and tears and thanks, in petting and holding and kissing and watching and in grinding—her father suddenly squinted at Mary and the Divine thought came to him.

“Say Mary, uh, you’ve been around awhile,” he stuck his foot in his mouth and marched right on over it, “uh, do you reckon you could take Elaine under your wing? Ya know sorta, show her the ropes, fill her in on uh… womanly duties and such?”

“Why, Mr. Sam,” Mary had chided him with a large smile on her face, stacking the heirlooms lovingly, “course I will. Though I reckon that girl knows all there is to know, never seen a child so proficient in the kitchen as your daughter. Makes Mr. Elvis’s eyes pop clean outta his skull the way she handles a spatula.” Mr. Phipps did not want to think of just what went on in that wiggly boy’s head concerning his daughter in an apron and wielding such an utensil.

Mary’s voice had trailed off, a dreamy look of admiration on her face as she reminisced on Elaine’s culinary proficiency. His hint entirely misinterpreted, Mr. Phipps returned to his truck in melancholy resignation.

“Wish we could give ya a weddin’ shower, let the ladies at the church spoil ya a bit.” He had later tried this track with Elaine, too, meaning he wished they could spill the beans about the upcoming wedding so the church ladies would squawk and flutter round to give the necessary advice to the young bride.

“Oh daddy we can’t!” Elaine had dropped her fork and grabbed his hand earnestly, acting as if he’d just proposed betraying government secrets, which come to think of it was about the scale of leaking Elvis’s intention to marry, “They’ll let the papers know and that'll alert Parker an’ it’ll be a mess! Just the family, it’s gotta be just the family, and I’m alright with that.”

Family. The remaining female population of the family consisted of a sister of Eleanor’s and Minnie Mae “Dodger” Presley.

Dodger no doubt could do the job of educating the girl well enough, but Mr. Phipps was loath to bring up the subject of sex with the wizened old bird. Not so much out of embarrassment so much as a gnawing presentment that such a lady could sniff out a man’s background and inner thoughts, that she could look into his skull as if it were a crystal ball and see that he had once nearly failed his own vows and banged his secretary. He had no appetite for chancing Dodger being as intuitive as he worried she was.

So that left the aunt, Eleanor’s sister. And initially, when he asked her to talk to the girl about wifely duties, it went over shockingly well. The aunt had marched up the stairs to the girl’s room right away, and came back downstairs five minutes later, saying it was done. Mr. Phipps wanted to know what all had been covered and explained in a meager five minutes, wanted to know if Elaine had taken the lesson well or was perturbed by it.

“Brother,” she had corrected stiffly, “these are not matters for a man and woman to discuss. I told her to be good and obedient. That’s all she needs to know.”

And the aunt was right, there was nothing proper about discussing it, but somehow not discussing it and letting poor Elaine bounce into her fancy new bed on her wedding night only to have that boy roll atop her and shove himself in with no explanation struck him as equally horrible. And it kept Mr. Phipps awake at night. Someone had to tell her. Someone, he thought with a growing headache, that he had yet to find or convince or conjure up. He was running out of time to perform this miracle, too.

Elaine herself had an irksome feeling something was being kept from her. But now that her curiosity was burning and her clock was ticking, she found all avenues of knowledge thwarted. Books she went to rent raised eyebrows and she could not bear to approach the library desk and have them checked out, the prospect of returning them once known and famous as the new Mrs. Presley a very real hurtle. Similarly, asking young girlfriends or their mothers would cause chatter and later be remembered and tied together with her union to Elvis. People would talk and say he married someone unprepared, a girl and not a woman. What she did in these upcoming weeks would reflect on him for the rest of their lives, every interaction, every glutted curiosity, every blush would be recalled and documented as hints of the Great Elvis and Elaine Conspiracy of ‘58.

So she contented herself with Elvis’ assurances that they would work and his promises that he would teach her in due time. She watched the silver screens fade to black during movie kisses and had to assume the scene fading before her hinted at sleep. What else was there?

Until that “what else” arrived, she was worked off her feet to keep the wedding under wraps and shift her belongings and schedule to align with Elvis and his orbit.

And in the meantime there were his kisses.

It was right and proper to hold hands now, Elvis assured Elaine. It was permissible to let him put his arms around her. Acceptable for him to map out the curves of her hips and waist over her day dresses when he kissed her.

Kisses, oh his kisses… now, those were new, exciting, and bizarrely addicting. A large hand cradling the base of her little noggin and the other wrapped around her waist, those kisses could be gentle or fierce, but they had her melting in his arms, awakening a deeper level of that hunger she’d first tasted when he had lifted her skirts and proclaimed her perfect.

He was still sore, deeply mourning his mama and wildly veering from joy to melancholy, an emotional rollercoaster she patiently rode alongside him. His entourage were not aware of their plans as yet, but already they accepted Elaine as a feature and a staple in his life. Miss Gladys haunted that place and seemed to arm the girl with authority and wisdom.

And Elvis clung to her like a lifeline, cuddling her and taking comfort in it, wrapping his body around hers like a giant child and sure, it caused Mr. Phipps to fret when he came across their intertwined bodies on the living room floor, but nothing objectionable was ever occurring, all hands quite visible and clothing buttoned primly. It was a gentle communion and he did not have the heart or moral high ground to disrupt it.

It was a lost cause, anyway, his baby girl was gonna get plucked in mere days, and he trusted Elvis to be right about it, kind about it, wait for the proper time. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a shock to have a man stuff himself inside her if he’d held her hand first.

So, without even speaking, the men in her life came to an agreement and Elvis clung to her a little harder and longer as the days went by, standing in the kitchen, sitting on the piano bench, laying on the couch, keeping her overnight as her father slept in the armchair just to keep up appearances.

“Elvis, son, you’ll be gentle with her, won’t ya?” Mr. Phipps couldn’t help himself from pleading as Elvis flopped next to him, worn out from spinning Elaine around to the suggestive lyrics of “The Girl Can’t Help It,/She Was Made to Squeeze”.

They’ve got a nice and private little shindig going on here at the old studio, a rehearsal dinner of sorts if they had bothered with a rehearsal. There’s been finger foods and music and laughter, the happiest he’s seen Elvis since Gladys passed. The young man was back in his civvies and he’s got some of the old carefree swagger in his step. He had doted on Elaine all evening. Watching him go over across the room to kiss her bashful lips in front of the crowd of friends and family, insisting to her she was family now—it had settled the panic Mr. Phipps felt growing in him as each subsequent night had marked one day closer to giving the girl away. That calm was unsettled by then watching Elvis twirl Elaine around, at arm's length so he could fully admire her figure as she spun, a reminder of the boy’s hunger. Miracles, as it turned out, were rather hard to come by on such short notice.

Mr. Phipps had no doubt Elvis was very good at… making it good. That was hardly a secret around town. It was just that good was very different from gentleness, from patient explanations while sitting on the bed with a clueless virgin. What he needed to know was, if he was gonna be passing the buck to her virulent young husband, Elvis must know it and swear to treat her innocence as the precious thing it was, not an embarrassing oversight in her education to be disposed of quickly and savagely.

“I’m gonna worship her, sir!” Elvis had sworn in response, not wasting breath or vanity in acting offended or embarrassed by the injunction.

Elvis Presley was a good boy, and an honest boy, Mr. Phipps reminded himself. She could do much worse.

So Mr. Phipps let it rest. He comforted himself that night—when he went up to bed, leaving them together on the porch swing—he comforted himself with thoughts of young people on desert islands who knew nothing but came to understand each other by the time of their rescue, of Adam and Eve and the command to have children, the way they had figured out how left to the fog of time.

Mr. Phipps would allow Elaine’s carnal education to run the same course.

Below him on the porch swing Elvis has Elaine snug in his lap, her legs folding over his own as his feet push against the peeling porch boards to propel the bench swing to move. Back and forth, back and forth in the cozy veil of night, his large hands interlocked over her belly a steadying weight and the sway of it makes her ache strangely and wiggle atop his thighs.

When she isn’t at Graceland with him, he is here with her, his motorbike hidden in the garage and the dead honeysuckle vines draping up the porch, their screen from the outside world. It’s too cold for fireflies or cicadas, but the wind makes a tinkling choke of the swing chains and Elvis’ frozen nose sniffles softly in her ear. He has wrapped his oversized coat around them both and buttoned her up in it with him like a baby kangaroo, much to her delight. It’s a furnace in the fleece-lined haven and her legs are chilled beneath the thin fabric of her dress but neither can make a move, it would invite a chill and they just got warmed up and a little sweaty, his lips smooching her neck and his cheek pressed to hers.

Besides, despite the late hour they’ve no desire to part and Elaine is regaling him with details of her machinations to combine their lives without alerting the general public. It’s a full on special service style operation and he finds he loves this side to her more than he ever realized. Watching her run the March of Dimes was one thing, witnessing her play cat and mouse with the Colonel is hella funnier still—and alarmingly sexy. The fact she’s doing this for them, dodging, scheming, bribing and finagling all so he can have the private wedding he longed for… it hits the spot and he finds himself holding her closer, the rocking of the swing speeding up as her story progresses, a tale of lying to caterers about the need for cake at Graceland.

She had told them it was Dodger’s birthday, the day after tomorrow, and she wanted “forever and always” in icing piped to celebrate turning seventy. Elvis can’t stop his giggles which spurs her on to more dramatic tellings, and he can’t stop swinging the swing and making them rub against each other, his loose trousers strained as his throbbing cock innocuously wedges itself between the globes of her ass. Elaine can feel the thump thump thump of his heartbeat down there, matching the way hers is always bounding these days, worse when the butterflies hit her belly or his kisses melt her insides. She can feel the pulse of him down there, and there’s a funny little twitch occasionally when his feet shove off the porch just right, it drags against her lil house just so, and her story suffers from the momentary jolt of pleasure.

These lapses of clarity are happening more often in his company, his kisses wipe her active mind blank in a way she craves, like sleep to the insomniac. Such helpless responses of her body to his have felt natural since he first rocked her to sleep, now they are lawful, too. She has logistics and a future to worry about, the way he makes her shudder and gasp from a lick or press is not of consequence.

“I told the fella that Fettucini Carbonara isn’t the same without bacon bu—Elvis?” his hands had begun to clutch her belly, fingertips digging into the plush curve of her achy womb and his breaths were tumbling out quick and urgent against her neck, a reaction entirely unwarranted by the story. “Elvis?” she repeated, sensing something building, though she didn’t know what.

It’s funny, Elvis is thinking, one never knows what a person will be like in bed until you’re, well, in bed with them. But that doesn’t mean you can’t have clues. And he’s done his fair share of detective work and then proof proving in his time with women.

Elaine has taken up more of his curiosity than anyone before or after he first began to think of her that way. From her athleticism and vigorous competitiveness he can assume she has stamina, her curiosity and lack of judgment indicates a propensity to experiment, her selflessness suggests she would be generous and eager to please but it’s her… craftiness… that makes him shudder now, that strong capability he always liked about her, but is now taking an edge that makes him think of laying beneath her and being used up himself. The fantasy has never veered this direction before but it hits him sticky, searing and potent, even as he shudders through it, hips jerking up to the rhythm of the all consuming thought -use me use me use me, Elaine, use me for your clever purposes—

“Elvis?” much softer this time, her tone is unmistakably concerned, as it should be with him limply shuddering behind her and a wet patch forming between them. “What’s goin’ on, darling?” her hand, that was occupied inside the jacket spinning her large new diamond ring, snakes down to his thigh and rubs it solicitously, unintentionally extracting a last little sputter out of him as he sucks in the chilly night air like he’d been cut down from the gallows.

These past few weeks she’s dealt with his moods and snot and that clammy, sweaty way he gets when worked up, never once flinching or so much as grimacing over it, used to children and hospital work, bodily functions have little power to disgust her. But he reckons that wetting the back of her skirt might be the thing that pushes the envelope, and he thinks he should explain, explain he didn’t just piss himself or half die on her but all he can think in his hazy post-release haze is to mumble

“I love you.”

against her neck, ardent and boyishly certain despite his awareness she won’t, can’t say it back just yet.

“Oh, E,” she whispers, turning her face to him, her nose cold as it nuzzles his cheek sweetly even as she probably thinks he just soiled himself, “Are you alright? What can I do?”

That’s her version of “I love you” and it’s one he’s happy with, now his mama is not there to say it, Elaine must and she never fails to.

“M’alright,” his mouth is dry and his brain is jelly and he can feel his mess growing sticky and cold where its excess drips down his pant leg, he wants to never let her go or he’ll get similarly cold all over, “I jus’ got excited, s’all.” he mumble into her ear and she listens intently, always curious, always eager to learn.

“Excited?” she repeats in a whisper, as if alone on the porch, hidden by the inky blankets of midnight she can preserve his dignity with a whisper, “So that’s not—what were you excited by?”

She changes course midway through her sentence and his drugged mind suggests now might be a great time to talk about sex but this whole arrangement it tenuous enough as is, he can’t bear to spook her with the mechanics and details until she can’t back out, ‘till the law says she’s lawfully his to keep and use, not until she’d have a mound of divorce papers ahead if she doesn’t like that concept of them joining. He has a smug feeling that even if she pursued a separation initially, he could make her like it, bring her around to the idea before she filled out more than two pages. It’ll keep.

“Was ‘cited by you.” he answers truthfully, “by bein’ with you, always makes me happy.” and that’s not a lie, not at all, his heart and his soul and his body cleave to her and adjust themselves to her presence like sunflowers to the sun.

“Oh.” she sounds so pleased, even as her eyebrows are drawn together with the weight of so much knowledge just out of reach.

It’ll keep her up tonight if he knows her, thoughts and confusions and he contemplates reaching beneath her skirt and stroking the ache he prays is there for him to soothe. But that seems risky, too. Day after tomorrow, he can do anything he damn well likes to her. And he’s got a laundry list, it’ll keep. He worries at that thought like his guitar strap. It’ll keep, it’ll keep.

“Ya know how you get damp down there when you’re excited?” he figures this tiny part of the lesson won’t harm anything.

She jolts in his lap and gasps like she’s been caught with her hand down the cookie jar, and if the light were better he knows he’d find her blushing like mad. “H-how’d you know?” she hisses urgently and he’s smug as hell she has no shame to ask him, that he’s the one she wants to learn from.

He wants to laugh but forces himself not to, even if his lips keep trembling in a happy smirk, “Oh baby, it’s natural, jus’ a natural way of your engine revvin’ up. Figured a healthy girl like you—gotta be real slick sometimes, waitin’ to get used.”

“Used?”

“Like the ache ya told me ‘bout,” he deflects, “it’s there to help ya grow those babies. I saw ya glistenin’ when I checked ya house, ‘member?” he prods and she begins to relax in his lap as facts slot into place in her mind, his brand of logic taking root. He pets her belly again, hoping it makes her ache worse, trying to recall her own terminology about this to use against her, “And that’s how ya know you work with someone, if they warm your engine, get ya drippin, means they excite ya.”

Elaine thinks of the night he crashed her date, driving her home and bullying her in the car with sensations and emotions she’d never felt before, and then in the kitchen as he backed her against the stove, delighting in making her uncomfortable. His whole act had been alarmingly purposeful despite his protestations of loyalty to his girls. She knew then he wasn’t playing, or not to the degree he said he was, and now she knows why. It wasn’t a lack of being comfortable with each other, it was suppressed excitement.

She excited him, and he had excited her.

But back then it had been wrong. It wasn’t right to excite someone you’re not gonna marry, not right or not even possible, she’s unsure which. Maybe that’s the problem everyone has with Elvis, he excites girls—a nation's worth—that he’s not gonna marry. She huffs out a relieved prayer of gratitude that he’s gonna marry her and she doesn’t have to be sorry for or fight against this feeling for the rest of her life, that all those nights of wedging a pillow between her legs and begging for that ache to burst were out of loyalty to the man ordained for her.

She nestles back against him contended, even as she wonders at the sheer amount of his excitement soaking her backside and making her dress cling to her. “I’m glad.” she whispers with a wide grin on her face as she stares up at the porch’s beams, “I’m glad I excite you, Elvis.”

Upstairs, as he tosses in his sleep, Mr. Phipps hears the chains of the porch swing resume their creaking rhythm again. He doesn’t recall when the rocking grind had stopped.

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