Pride and Punishment: An Erotic Retelling of Jane Austen's Beloved Classic

by Nia Farrell

  It should not surprise me, that she is willing to go so far to keep them separated. She has no qualms about fabricating lies, stretching truths, or stealing correspondence.

  “Letters can be screened.” I point out the alternative, wondering why she has not considered it.

  Caroline rolls her eyes and blows out sharply. “If you wish to fan the flame,” she says tartly. “I know how his mind works. Any word from her, and Charles will take it as a sign of affection. If she cares enough to write, she must care for him. His infatuation needs to wither on the vine, and only silence will ensure that.”

  I do not like it, but she is adamant. Rather than argue, I pick up the newspaper and read it until Charles returns. His mood is mixed, gratification for his latest business dealing and dissatisfaction at being separated from Miss Jane Bennet. We adjourn to the study, away from female ears where we are free to speak, and talk of Netherfield.

  Eventually, I make him see that Miss Jane treated him no differently than any other of her many dance partners. Yes, she was pleasant, but she was equally pleasant to everyone. She did nothing to indicate a preference for his company, did nothing that placed him clearly above the rest.

  As much as he wishes to, he cannot argue the point, thank God. Instead he has another drink to drown his sorrow and swears off women—if not altogether, then at least for a while.

  The subjects of Caroline’s leaving and Victoria’s coming out will wait. Having his foolish fancies exposed and stripped away, Charles needs time to process the changes and regain his equilibrium before I send his world spinning again.

  We play some cards.

  I let him win.

  Before leaving, we make a date for the latest comedy, something he needs and I can use, when thoughts of Hugh, Georgiana, and Miss Elizabeth continue to plague me. The first two will suffer a year before they are allowed to join. Would that the future were as clear for Miss Bennet.

  Of course, there is the cousin, Reverend Collins. I would not wish to inflict him upon any female of my acquaintance, but her family’s future may depend upon it.

  I write Aunt Catherine upon my return home, to let her know that I have seen Hugh. I mention that he is determined to prove himself worthy of Georgiana, even if it means waiting twelve months. I convey that I have managed to save my friend from an imprudent match in Meryton and remark that I met Reverend Collins there. He introduced himself at Netherfield’s ball, when he was in the company of his cousins, the Bennet family, showing a decided preference for the second daughter, Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn.

  Let her read into it what she will. Aunt Catherine loves one-up-man-ship. If Reverend Collins has claimed one or the other of his Bennet cousins, she shall be only too happy to inform me of it.

  Would that I be as happy to hear.

  Hoping to take my mind off a certain pair of sapphire eyes, I ask Georgiana to play for me, something to lift the spirit, knowing it will do both of us good. She chooses a favourite piece, and her dexterous fingers fly across ivory and ebony keys, filling the air with music that should inspire delight yet falls short of the mark. It is not her fault. It is mine. In separating Bingley from Miss Jane, I have been kinder to him than to myself, as thus far I have not succeeded in severing the ties that threaten to bind me to her sister. I should cut the cords, exorcise every thought of her, think of her no more…and yet tonight, alone in my bed, I stroke myself to the fantasy of her kneeling naked at my feet, submitting to my domination, surrendering herself to me.

  Damn how she haunts me. I need to let her go. I should. I must….

  Ah…!

  Ejaculate shoots from my cock in milky streams and fills the wad of toweling that I pump into, thereby eliminating the need to wash my chest and abdomen, and guaranteeing clean sheets on which to sleep. My maid would happily change them. I dare say, she would do more than that, with little encouragement from me, but I prefer to keep my private life just that. I do not dally with servants. To do so is bad business which has cost more than one man dearly. If I cannot scratch my itch, there are submissives at my clubs who can, and happily will, even if Hugh does not join me.

  The next night is a repeat. I fist myself while visions of a spanked, rosy bottom and dark, tear-filled eyes play in my head. The following day finds me at the club, sharing a drink with Hugh while we watch a bondage scene, my Priapus testing the seams of my breeches.

  Hugh is in much the same way, save Aunt Catherine has denied him the option that I choose to exercise, a buxom blonde with a generous mouth, plump lips, and a practiced tongue. She obeys my summons and kneels at my feet, awaiting my command.

  “I want to fuck your tits,” I growl, spreading my knees wide. “Take me out and get me wet.”

  My turgid flesh has pulled the buttons tight in their linen-bound holes. Undoing my fall is a challenge, but her fingers are nimble and talented enough to free my flesh. She must use two hands to take me out. Stroking and squeezing the vein-roped column, she wraps her lips around the head. Her tongue swirls, spreading the moisture that clings to the tip. A soft hum vibrates my flesh. She allows my erection to go deeper, deeper into her mouth, down her throat, her saliva wetting its length.

  “Enough,” I say. “Present your breasts to me. Cup them. Yes. Now come close. Lean in. Ah!” She nestles my cock between her breasts and squeezes. The sight is erotic, delightfully so. I fuck her tits, slickened rod sliding between her fleshy orbs, guiding her head down so that I fuck her mouth as well. I fist her hair and push deeper, harder, willing her to take more, and more.

  “Wet me,” I tell her. “I am going to finish in your arse.”

  When I release her head, strings of saliva connect us. “Hands and knees,” I grate, grasping her hips and wetting her star with her juices. Sliding my tip along her shaved, swollen lips, I push against the ruched ring, insistent, demanding entrance until she opens for me. I surge inside, back off, drive in deeper, deeper, her snug, silken walls squeezing me like a fist. I work my way in until I’m seated to my root. She moans, panting softly, and presses back against me, greedy slut.

  Smack!

  I spank her cheek, hard enough to leave a handprint. “Trying to take what I would give you?” Smack! “Have you no patience?” Smack! “No manners?” Smack! “Lucky for you I am close to coming, otherwise I would be tempted to ream you raw and teach you a lesson that you would not soon forget.”

  Smack!

  “Please,” she whimpers. “Do it.”

  A pain slut?

  I fist her hair and pull, forcing her body into an exaggerated arch. Beautiful. “Do you want it to hurt?” I ask, willing to give it, if that is what she needs. “Will you find pleasure in the pain?”

  “Yes,” she breathes. “God, yes.”

  Well, then.

  I let loose, fucking her arse until she has climaxed thrice and my balls have migrated north. Ready to blow my load, I pinch her nipple and jack into her, driving deep and holding. Shuddering as my climax rips through me, I empty myself in her depths, seminal fluid bursting in endless, pulsing waves.

  “Good girl,” I say. “Thank you. I needed that.”

  Hugh did, too, voyeur that he is. Seeing the mess that he has made, my play partner licks her lips in silent invitation.

  He shakes his head, smiling weakly. “Can’t,” he says ruefully.

  When her amber eyes spark at the challenge he presents and her body tightens around me, I spank her arse until I am hard again and she is begging me for more. I should punish her, only punish her. Bad girls get spanked, not diddled, but my member vetoes the notion, to hell with it.

  Hugh can join me, at least, for the punishment part. We adjourn to his private room, where his rack of implements awaits. Floggers, crops, belts, tawses, whips, canes—smooth and leather-wrapped—come down. We take turns marking her flesh, listening to her whimper and moan, coveting her tears, taking pride in the hot, wet mess that she is, moisture trickling down her thighs.

  I toss aside the cane, oil
my shaft, and take her arse, fucking her with abandon. Flesh slaps against flesh while Hugh fists himself, crying out as his ejaculate bursts forth, an explosion of white aimed at her face. It strikes her cheek. She turns her head, mouth opened, hoping to catch some of it. Hugh denies her, emptying the last of it onto her shoulder, where it runs down her arm.

  Hugh collapses into a chair, content that he has followed Aunt Catherine’s instructions and replete with the finish achieved by his own hand. Grasping our girl’s hips, my fingers dig into the reddened flesh as I pound into her, driving deep, slamming my pelvis into her tender flesh and grinding against it, again, and again, and again.

  “God. Fuck. Damn her.” Midnight eyes flash before my closed ones, and I cry out in one last, great, meaty thrust that feels deep enough to reach her navel, where I stay until I have emptied myself inside her dark passage.

  The aftermath is bittersweet as I care for my play partner. Her blonde hair is sticky with sweat and semen. Her flesh is deliciously marked. The smile on her face should be reward enough. I should be satisfied. I should feel content.

  And I will be, I tell myself, as soon as I have fucked away the memories of Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Forgetting Miss Elizabeth Bennet proves easier said than done. It helps that there are other problems to be tackled, first and foremost the four Bingley sisters. Patrice Hurst seems unwilling to be found, which means that Caroline remains in Grosvenor Street with Louisa and George Hurst. After much consideration, I solicit my sister’s blessing and invite Charles and his three youngest sisters to live with us in the London town house.

  The arrangement will work on a number of levels. Charles shall be removed from Caroline’s influence and subject to mine. His sister Victoria will be free to come out. The twins can practice their instruments and perfect their art, rather than have it stifled by a jealous older sibling. Georgiana will have her most intimate friends here, with her—good girls who are of an age, with like interests to keep her engaged when her mind would otherwise be occupied by nostalgia—or longing for Hugh. If I can but keep the Bingleys a year, their room and board will be a small price to pay for my sister’s happiness.

  Georgiana enjoys Victoria’s company and admires her watercolours. The musical Marissa and Clarissa can be quite effervescent and are prone to giggles when Caroline is gone. I have listened to them with my sister. Hearing Georgiana laugh—actually laugh—is a rare treat these days, and reason enough to extend my invitation.

  Charles demurs, of course. He has no wish to intrude. He does not want to feel obligation or debt. By pleading my case—for my sister’s sake, and for the three of his, he finally yields. The next day, the four Bingleys are happily ensconced in the second and third floor guest rooms of my town house, leaving Caroline at the Hursts’ home in Grosvenor Street, to stew and scheme as she will.

  Georgiana, although younger, immediately takes Victoria under her wing and accompanies her to the dressmaker (not Madame Lumière), where Victoria is fitted for a new wardrobe suitable for coming out. There will be rounds of balls close to the holiday season, and the two older girls plan to attend as many as they can. Victoria hopes to make acquaintances and gain new friends.

  Georgiana wants only to dance with Hugh.

  Perhaps Friday the Thirteenth is not the ideal date to attend a ball, but Victoria’s dress is done and the girls insist on going. Miss Bingley’s dance card is quickly filled, with a constant change of partners. In the course of the evening, Georgiana dances only with Charles, myself, and Hugh.

  He is resplendent in his uniform, all red wool and polished brass, his black boots shined to a glossy finish. At six feet in height, Hugh is seven inches taller than my sister, which would make waltzing a challenge if such a dance were allowed in polite society, but contredanses, cotillions, and reels comprise the sets. Watching them together, there is no mistaking the connection between the two. Georgiana has become adept at wearing a mask, but she drops it in an unguarded moment and allows her true feelings to shine through.

  Hugh sees what I do and gives her a stern look. Just that quickly, the mask is back, her smile forced as she focuses her gaze elsewhere, as if it hurts to look at him, knowing that nothing more can come of it—not yet.

  At her age, eleven months seems like an eternity. Hugh is older, wiser, far more experienced and adept at managing his emotions. His personality demands that he be in control, of himself first and foremost. While Aunt Catherine’s edict bans sexual partners, he has other needs that must be met. I offer to visit him tomorrow night and help him find someone to dominate and discipline who will not tempt him to stray.

  His name is “Thomas.” Twice our age and rich as Croesus—hardly our typical submissive but he seems exactly the one to suit Hugh’s needs. Born into wealth and ruthless in his business dealings, Thomas craves the punishment that Hugh’s nature yearns to administer. Knowing my cousin’s capacities, I cannot help but tender a hope that, if their mutual needs are well met, they may yet cultivate a nonsexual relationship of domination and submission—one which will satisfy Hugh’s darkest yearnings and spare my sister’s tender flesh.

  We start downstairs, with a public impact play. Thomas has discussed his likes and limitations, as well as his fetishes, which is what tempted Hugh in the first place. Colonel Fitzwilliam has experience with cock-and-ball torture but not suspension bondage and bastinado, and he is eager to explore these with Thomas as a willing participant.

  It is a long evening—physically, mentally, and emotionally demanding. Thomas is denied an orgasm (a routine part of his punishment). Hugh maintains his erection throughout, still has it when I leave his room to escort Thomas downstairs, where he is seen safely to his carriage and taken home. I have little experience with same-gender relations, but watching Hugh dominate Thomas makes me more open to the idea. When I take a seat in the corner and purvey the offerings, my gaze skims over the blonde kitten with clever jewelry but fastens on a pretty ginger twink with lips as plump as pillows. His nipples are pierced, adorned with small golden rings that match the ones worn in his ears. What intrigues me more is the kilt that he wears. His legs and his feet are bare and beautifully formed.

  My cock stirs, and I wonder what his mouth would feel like, swallowing my length.

  Another dominant commands him before I have a chance to find out. I settle instead for the kitten, securing her to a St. Andrew’s cross, pinking her flesh with a doeskin flogger, reddening it with a crop, strop, and cane. When she is a quivering, mewling mass, I take her cunny with a single, heaving thrust from behind that brings her to her toes. I flex my hips and drive in deep again, and again, fisting her hair when I feel my testicles tightening, drawing up, readying to release. I wet a finger and shove it in her arse, then follow with my cock, tunnelng inside her and biting the back of her neck when I ejaculate in her dark passage.

  Feeling merciful, I reach around and find her clitoris with my right hand, rubbing circles before catching it between two fingers. I clamp down on it at the same time I pinch her pierced nipple. She explodes in a seismic paroxysm, walls spasming and tightening around my still-turgid length.

  I do my duty. Take her down. Wrap her up. See that she drinks and eats just a bit. Evaluate her for adversity and make certain that she is stable before I take my leave. Donning my warmest hat and heaviest coat against the bitter cold, I return to the town house, where I have the footman pull off my boots at the door. Stockinged feet may cause floorboards to creak, but they are much less likely to wake the slumbering denizens than cobbled heels and soles.

  It is exceedingly late when my valet has dressed me for bed but sleep is elusive. My earlier release proves unsatisfactory. On a deeper level, it is a scratch that has only worsened the constant itch that plagues me, fueled by irritation that I must deny myself what I wish for the most, to have Miss Elizabeth Bennet at my mercy, her fair skinned bottom reddened with handprints, her sapphire eyes bright with tears, her sultry throat vibrat
ing as she hums around my length, pleasuring me with supple lips and teasing tongue while I fist my hands in the wealth of her chestnut hair, fucking her face until I explode against her palate.

  My breath hisses as I come apart, one hand squeezing my stones, the other fisting my cock, my inner vision wracked by memories of Miss Bennet, hurt that I would not dance with her in Meryton, adamant when Sir William pressured her to do so at Lucas Lodge, defiant when obliged to finally dance with me at Netherfield.

  She will fuck like she dances, and she dances like a dream.

  I fall asleep, cursing the luck that made Charles choose a lease in Hertfordshire. It is the last place he should be. The last place I should be.

  Now if I can but make myself believe it, perhaps I shall succeed in banishing all thoughts of Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Time and distance, I tell myself. All it takes is time and distance. I’ve convinced Charles of its efficacy. Why can I not convince myself?

  The problem remains unresolved in the morning, and the next morning, and the next. The holiday season is a constant round of business by day and social obligations at night, filled with entertainment enough to distract me, yet neither the excitement of Christmas nor the promise of the New Year can silence the questions in my mind.

  The latest news concerning Longbourn both delights and disturbs me. The first piece should not please me as it does. How is Miss Elizabeth, now that her friend Miss Lucas is to marry Reverend Collins? As for the other, how will Charles handle it, if he learns that Miss Jane Bennet is coming to London?

  My fear, and Caroline’s, is that weeks of progress will be for naught, that one crook of Miss Jane’s finger will summon him to her side. As of now, he does not know that his sister and Miss Bennet have been corresponding. Caroline has sworn me to secrecy, insisting that familial visits be conducted solely at my town house, to eliminate any chance of their meeting. I dislike subterfuge and only agree because I believe it to be in my friend’s best interest.