Peg'n' Elvis

Peg'n' Elvis

"You're back for another drink already, Mr. Presley?" The bartender, wiping the counter in front of him, winked at Harry McComber. "You realize this is the third time I've served you in the last fifteen minutes? At this rate, I'm going to have to cut you off soon."

Harry glanced around the room. "Really, two other guys came as Elvis?" He turned back to the bartender. "Surely I'm the only Vegas Elvis."

"Actually, you're the second rhinestone Elvis I've seen this evening. The other one looked like he came out of Jailhouse Rock."

"Damn! So much for my idea for an original costume," he shook his head. "I'll drown my sorrows in a Heineken, please."

As the bartender filled a glass from the tap, he observed philosophically, "I'm surprised I haven't seen more of you tonight. When you restrict the costumes at a Halloween party to 'Media Stars—Past and Present,' you kinda narrow the range of options. After all, I haven't seen the usual ghosts and ghouls, unless you count the guy doing Bela Lugosi as Dracula."

Just as Harry tipped the bartender and turned to leave, someone goosed him. He nearly dropped his drink. He whirled to see who possessed such audacity, nearly sloshing his beer out of its glass for the second time in as many seconds. He confronted a woman a head shorter than himself. She grinned mischievously beneath the broad brim of a red fedora sporting a yellow band and cocked at a jaunty angle. A matching yellow scarf disappeared into the collar of her red trench coat, which coordinated with her hat.

"Why, Elvis, you look all shook up," she laughed. "Are you in love?"

"Peg, you took quite a risk there," Harry sighed, relieved. "How'd you know you were grabbing me? After all, there are at least two other Elvises here."

"Aw, come on, Harry," she tittered, unrepentant. "You don't think that, after being married to you for twenty years, I couldn't pick your ass out in a crowd?"

"Who do you think you are?" he demanded.

She stepped back and made a stately 360-degree turn to display her costume to full effect. "Guess!" she insisted.

Harry glanced up at the gaudy chandeliers hanging from the hotel ballroom ceiling as he struggled to remember the character. "Some kinda detective?" he speculated.

"Close, but no cigar," Peggy shook her head. "So, Elvis, are you gonna get a girl a drink or what?"

When Harry got the bartender's attention, he responded to the man's "not again" arched eyebrow by pointing to Peggy. "This wine's for her," he explained.

"Oh, you mean Carmen Sandiego over there?" the bartender asked. "Now, that's an original costume. It's the first of her I've seen this evening."

Harry decided to overlook the bartender's smartass sarcasm. "So that's who she is? Carmen Sandiego?"

"Yeah, Netflix is rebooting that series. My niece loves it."

"Here's your pinot grigio, Carmen," Harry observed with a slight swagger as he handed her her wine.

"You recognized my costume!" Peggy cheered. "A toast to our memories—long may they last!" They clinked glasses and drank deeply.

"Isn't this great?" Peggy asked, throwing her free left hand wide to encompass the entire ballroom. "No kids, no trick-or-treaters at the door, and we have a room for the night here so neither one of us has to worry about staying sober enough to drive home!"

"Yeah, and it took only twenty years and two college tuitions," Harry observed ruefully as he sipped again.

"So let's toast college, then, the best—most expensive—babysitter ever!"

Harry finished drinking first and changed the subject. "Last I saw you, Carmen, you were planning to go to the hairdresser to get a special do for your costume. I imagined you getting some retro look like Farah Fawcett or something, but your hair doesn't look any different than usual. Maybe if you took your hat off ..."

"No," Peggy sipped her wine.

Harry sipped his beer. "So why did you make such a big deal about going to the hair salon if you won't take your hat off?"

"Carmen never takes her hat off," Peggy shook her head.

That sounded wrong to Harry, but he didn't remember enough about the character to argue with Peggy, and he refused to ask the resident costume critic behind the bar about it.

"So did you grab us a seat at one of those?" Peggy waved in the general direction of the walls, where some tables sat in a neat line.

"No, they all seemed to be taken."

"Look," Peggy gestured with her glass. "Aren't President Trump and Melania getting up over there?"

They hurried over and sank into the recently vacated chairs. "Well, I'm grateful for the President's timely exit," Peggy smirked. "I doubt he'll be so accommodating at next year's election."

"Speaking of elections," Harry scowled slightly. "I thought this was a media-themed costume party. What's Donald Trump doing here? He's a politician, not a media personality."

"You forget, darling," Peggy wagged a reproving finger at her husband, "that Trump was a reality TV star long before he entered politics."

"Fair point," Harry shrugged.

"You know," Peggy observed, "you could have pulled that costume off, better than him even, since, like at-real-Donald-Trump, you have a comb over. All we'd have to do is dye your hair bright orange. Maybe we should that do next Halloween. What do you think?"

"Very funny," he snorted. "Besides, if you get your way and make me shave off all my hair before that, I'll never be able to play Mr. Trump."

"If you finally see sense and invite it rather than fight it like I've been telling you to do for years, you could be Telly Savalas instead," Peggy suggested. "I bet you'd make a pretty darn good Kojak."

With the witching hour of midnight rapidly approaching and both Harry and Peggy satisfyingly buzzed, they finally abandoned their table and headed across the now-emptying ballroom floor to the doors and the elevator bank beyond. As they waited for their elevator, a woman in a yellow puddle skirt and matching sweater staggered out of the ballroom and collided with Harry. He caught her by her right elbow, propping her up. Regarding her savior blearily, the drooping woman smiled and lisped, "Elvith, keep your pelvith away from me" and tittered hysterically at her own joke.

Peggy stepped around to the woman's left side and grabbing that elbow, gently pulling her from Harry's grip. "Don't worry, Sandra Dee," Peggy grunted. "This pelvis is mine." And, with her free right hand, she spanked Harry's butt with a loud smack, making him jump.

At that moment, a guy in a cowboy hat with a five-pointed star pinned to his vest stepped forward. "Here, let me help. Come on, dear, this way," he coaxed as he relieved Peggy of the burden of supporting the unconvincing Olivia Newton-John impersonator.

Peggy touched the brim of her fedora. "Much obliged, Marshall Dillon,"

The faux Dillon lifted his hat in reply as he led his drunken partner down the hall.

#

Laughing, Harry and Peggy tumbled together into the entrance hallway of their hotel room. As the door slammed shut behind them, Harry, his back to Peggy, steadied himself against the wall with one hand. "You gotta admit that that Sandra Dee wannabe downstairs was pretty funny," he panted. "Even in a drunken stupor, she got her line right."

"It wasn't that funny," Peggy, who stood behind Harry, scoffed. "After all, Elvis, this pelvis belongs to me." So saying, she put a hand on either of her husband's hips and pulled his bottom toward her.

Feeling something pointed jabbing him through the cloth of his white jumpsuit, Harry whirled. "What in the world..." His jaw sagged as he faced his wife and beheld a dildo thrusting its dark pink head out between the folds of her red trench coat. "Peg, you're packing ..." he gasped.

Peggy beamed as she fully opened her coat to reveal, strapped atop her black leggings, the harness which held the rigidly erect faux phallus in place. "That's right, Elvis. Now shimmy out of that jump suit, get that pelvis of yours buck-naked and into that bathroom." She pointed a bright red fingernail toward a door just to their right. "I want you ready for me: bent over, your hands on the edge of the bathroom counter. Got it?"

Unfastening his belt and letting it drop to the floor with a thud, Harry saluted Peggy. "Yes, Carmen." He peeled off the jumpsuit, leaving it in a pile on the carpeted floor then stepped out of it, still wearing his matching white shoes. He pushed the door open.

When Peggy stepped in behind him, she huffed in mock exasperation, "I said, 'buck naked'," and tugged at his underwear, which fell to his ankles. Reaching into the right pocket of her trench coat, she pulled out a latex glove that she snapped onto her right hand. She reached into her left pocket and pulled out a tube of lubricant. Squeezing a generous dollop of clear gel from the tube onto the tip of her right index finger, she stepped behind Harry.

Watching these preparations in the mirror in front of him, Harry grinned lasciviously, "You thought of everything, didn't you?"

Peggy pressed her gloved, lubricated index finger onto his anal opening. Involuntarily, Harry moaned. In response, Peggy massaged in circular motions. "Of course, I thought of everything," she husked. "Carmen Sandiego is always prepared!"

"Well, why don't you relax, make yourself at home, and take that ridiculous hat off?" As if in answer, she thrust into his ass her well-lubed index finger—right up to the first joint, penetrating him only about an inch, but it felt like she'd run a sword into him up to the hilt. He nearly yelped.

"I told you," she said through gritted teeth, "Carmen never takes her hat off."

The muscles of Harry's ass squeezed and contracted around Peggy's finger. She paused, waiting. Despite himself, his muscles relaxed. In response, she pushed in further. When he tensed again, she withdrew a bit, then, after a pause she pushed in once more, her relentlessly probing finger suddenly cold. "What did you do?" he quavered.

"Drizzled more lube onto my finger. I want to make sure you're well-oiled and ready for the deepest penetration possible." She pushed her finger in and out, inducing more involuntary moans on Harry's part, as she established a rhythmic cadence.

Harry hissed as her middle finger joined her index finger moving in and out of his asshole. As soon as he relaxed a bit, he felt that same cold sensation again. "More lube?" he asked.

"Yes," she grunted. "I'm going deep this time."

Harry's penis surged into life, stiffening magically, involuntarily as she stroked his prostate. "What's this little bag?" she hissed, triumphant.

"My prostate," he moaned.

The pressure on his prostate vanished as she withdrew her fingers. "I'm warming you up for this." He felt the dildo's bulbous round tip penetrate his anus, the entry eased by copious amounts of lube. She stopped suddenly, as his sphincter muscles clenched on the plastic. He panted and groaned, but, despite himself, his muscles slowly loosed their grip on the surrogate penis. She pushed in a bit further then paused. He gulped, and she pulled back.

"Time for more lube," she narrated for his benefit. "Just drizzling some more onto this bad boy." Then seconds later, she advanced again, the dildo thrusting in even further this time.

He hissed. As if this constituted some sort of signal, she began to pull back and push forward, slowly, deliberately, establishing a rhythm. Each thrust drew a moan from him, wrung a groan of pleasure from his throat. She slowly increased the tempo, rocking back and forth. His prostate, already enflamed by her fingertips, throbbed and sang. Without conscious effort, in fact, despite himself, he started leaning into the plastic cock as it thrust forward into him.

He felt her grab his bare hips on either side of him. She steadied herself then pulled his hips back toward her as she pushed her dildo forward, deeper, more insistently, into him. He gasped and sobbed. His penis surged, stiffened further.

He dropped his head, leaning forward. His pompadour-styled wig fell off into the sink. Gasping for air, he lifted his head and came nose-to-nose with himself in the mirror. The wig cap, which reminded Harry of one of Peggy's knee-high stockings, fell off with the wig as well, revealing his shiny bald scalp, his chrome dome more obvious than ever because the cap compressed what little hair he still possessed. Harsh bathroom light bounced off his bare pate.

Peggy laughed. "Elvis, whatever happened to your hair?"

In extremis, Harry struggled for a witty comeback but managed only a groan, which sounded pathetic, even to his ears.

"Cat got your tongue, baldy?" Peggy mocked. "Too embarrassed to say anything? Well, don't be. You see, darling..." She reached up to the top of her fedora and, with a flourish, swept it off. Harry's breath snagged in his throat as he looked into the mirror before him and saw, reflected in the surface, his wife's shiny chrome dome. "You're not the only one who's bald anymore."

Harry stared in horror into the glass as he took in his wife's tonsure. Unlike his natural male pattern baldness—which obliterated his hairline long ago and, in recent years, stretched from the crown of his head to creep down the back of his scalp in a wide semicircle—Peggy's bald spot circled her crown perfectly symmetrically. Her shaved scalp ended in a sharp demarcation all around her pate where, coincidentally—or maybe not so coincidentally—her fedora formerly sat. Beneath this cleanly shaved, artificially receded hairline, long locks abruptly sprouted from the sides of her head, covering her ears and the back of her neck.

She chortled at Harry's shocked expression. "What do you think? How did my hairdresser do?"

"You asked her to do this to you?" Harry yelped. "Why?"

Peggy leaned forward, reaching around her husband's hairy stomach to wrap the fingers of her right hand around his cock, which hung slightly deflated now. Working her hand up and down his shaft, she renewed her rhythmic in and out with the dildo. Between the hand job and renewed dildo thrusts, Peggy recaptured the heart-pounding momentum that the shock of her reveal briefly interrupted. The pressure to come built towards a massive crescendo, then, as if sensing the proximity of his climax, she eased off, panting herself, as if her plastic penis tingled with the same intense desire for release that enveloped his flesh-and-blood member.

"Why?" Peggy gasped. "It's time you finally know what it's like to have a baldy give it to you up your ass like you've done to me all these years."

Catching a second wind, she resumed her pushing and stroking. He pushed back, despite himself, despite his inhibitions, wringing as much pleasure as possible from this penetration of his anus. His penis sang, became rock hard under her persistent touch. Sweat beaded his brow, popping out on his bare scalp. He lost track of time, of all sensation, except for the persistent thrusting and his push against it, until, unable to restrain himself, he gave in to his body's insistent demands for release and, in what felt like an interminable gush, spewed forth his semen. It spattered onto the linoleum, splashing the tips of his white shoes.

#

Harry groaned as he slid his feet out of bed. He wanted nothing more than to roll over and go back to sleep, but his prostate, still deliciously tender from its merciless pounding last night, demanded that he empty his bladder. As he staggered upright, he tugged down the bottom of his tee-shirt, the only garment he wore to bed, and peered over in the semidarkness of dawn that seeped into the hotel room around the edges of the opaque shades to see if Peggy, at least, still huddled in the blankets, enjoying the opportunity to sleep late this All Saints' Day morning. The bed lay empty, and the artificial light escaping from the bottom of the closed bathroom door confirmed his suspicions. She'd beaten him to the bathroom.

"Can I come in?" He tapped on the door. "I gotta pee," he added plaintively.

"Come on in," she called back with infuriating chipperness for this hour of the morning.

Groaning, Harry shouldered the door open then stood blinking with shock in the stingingly bright bathroom light. Peggy, in her frilly lavender nightgown, stood at the sink, leaning over, staring into the mirror, a pink Lady Schick razor poised in her hand over her lathered pate.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

Peggy turned and looked at him, all surprised innocence. "Touching up my bald spot," she replied matter-of-factly. "I'm getting rid of that pesky stubble that grew overnight." She turned her eyes back to the mirror and plunged the razor in at the back of her head and pulled it forward over her crown toward her now-obliterated hairline. "I want to make sure my scalp is as smooth as yours."

"You're not going to grow your hair back?" he demanded, sidling past her to the toilet, where he sat and relieved himself.

"Who said anything about growing it back?" she replied into the mirror as she watched herself shave a parallel stripe next to the path she'd just cleared over the crest of her head.

"What are you planning to do then? Wear that ridiculous fedora all the time wherever you go?" he tried to scoff to hide his nervousness.

"No, silly," she turned to face him again. "I'm going to do a comb over—just like you," she winked saucily.

"Well, you'll look ridiculous with a comb over," Harry snorted derivatively, hoping against hope to dissuade her from her mad course with his scorn. But knowing Peggy as he did, he seriously doubted his ability to persuade her to abandon any course she set her mind to.

"So do you," Peggy quipped and turned to the mirror, making ready to shave another parallel strip of her crown, "but that doesn't stop you, now does it?"

However futile the effort, he still felt compelled to try to talk at least some sense into her. "You'd look a lot better in a wig."

"So are you planning to wear a rug then, too?" she demanded, as she completed another razor stroke over her crown. She turned to face Harry, still perched on the toilet. "You planning to look like Elvis all the time?" she teased.

"No," Harry huffed. "I'd look ridiculous!"

"How's that any different for me?" she asked as she toweled the last of the cream off her freshly shaved bald spot. She paused to admire its shine in the mirror.

"Well, it's different for women," he argued. "You can get away with wearing a wig."

Peggy grabbed a pink comb from the counter and carefully dug it into the curtain of curls that ran down the right side of her head, dragging the locks over her tonsure. She turned to face him. "How do I look?" she beamed.

Harry winced at the ghastly sight. Her scalp shined through the tangle of hair that flopped over her obviously bald spot. "Terrible," he moaned and put his head in his hands. "Please tell me you're not planning to go out into public looking like that."

"You do all the time," she replied mildly.

"So what do you want me to do instead?" Harry looked up and huffed.

"What I've been telling you to do for years," she answered and, bending down, ran her fingers through his spare locks, pushing them off to the side to clear his bald spot. "Don't fight it, but invite it: man up, admit defeat, shave whatever's left as a sign of your complete capitulation, and finally go totally bald." She leaned over and planted a loud, juicy kiss on his bare scalp. "Your father did it, and your father before him. Now, it's your turn."

"If I do that, then what will you do?" Harry demanded, sensing another one of her insane bargains taking shape.

Straightening, she replied, "Wear a wig until my hair grows back."

Harry regarded the determined set of her jaw, her familiar look of challenge and bravado.