Fifty Shades of Mr Darcy: A Parody

by William Codpiece Thwackery

  ‘Oof!’ he puffed.

  Now he was towering over her, his grey eyes swimming with desire.

  ‘Turn round,’ he ordered.

  Elizabeth turned, and felt Mr Darcy’s hands deftly undoing the buttons of her gown. Slowly, teasingly, he pulled it over her head. He shook it out, then fetched a hanger from the wardrobe and suspended the dress from it. ‘Hmm, what’s that?’ he mused, scratching at a small stain on the hem.

  ‘Ink, I believe.’

  ‘You should try soaking that in milk,’ he suggested. ‘If that doesn’t work, rub it with some lye soap.’

  God, he was such a perfectionist!

  He turned back to Elizabeth and gazed upon her near-naked loveliness.

  ‘I’m going to boff you now, Miss Bennet,’ he declared. ‘Hard. You had better brace yourself.’

  Apprehension suddenly seized her. She was unsure of what to do, how to move. Would he be disappointed? As if sensing her thoughts, Mr Darcy took control.

  ‘Lie down on the bed, Elizabeth,’ he commanded, ‘and lift up your shift.’

  Gingerly, she lay back upon the red embroidered quilt.

  ‘Why, Miss Bennet, are those my longjohns?’ he asked in surprise. His brow furrowed. ‘We had better remove them at once. I’d been wearing them for five days straight.’

  Quickly, he ripped the worsted leggings from her slender legs, and paused, drinking in her milky whiteness.

  ‘Prepare yourself, Madam, for your first taste of nooky,’ he said huskily, clambering onto the bed beside her.

  Jeez, he was so beautiful! She reached out a hand to caress him.

  ‘No touching!’ Mr Darcy gasped.

  Why? Why couldn’t she touch him? He was so exquisite, it was impossible to resist. Determinedly, Elizabeth grasped his manhood with her delicate fingers. Mr Darcy flinched. Then his body quivered uncontrollably, and suddenly – oh my! – there was an emission that, were it to be named, would be bound to soil the pages of this book.

  ‘Nooooooo!’ groaned Mr Darcy.

  ‘Oh!’ exclaimed Elizabeth.

  Mr Darcy’s eyes grew dark, and his mouth set in a grim line.

  ‘I said, “no touching”, Elizabeth.’

  ‘Forgive me!’ Elizabeth was mortified. ‘I did not know what might happen!’

  ‘Dammit, Elizabeth. I am a man of uncontrollable passions!’ Mr Darcy cried. ‘I am constantly in a state of arousal. Especially with you. Do you remember that first evening, at Netherfield, when I refused to dance? The truth was, I was in such a sexual frenzy at seeing your fine, ripe bubbies barely constrained by that thin cotton gown you wore, that had I been forced to perform as much as a pas de chat, my breeches would have exploded.

  ‘People believe I am proud, and haughty,’ he continued, ‘when in fact I am constantly on the verge of release. A little stiffness and formality in manner is only to be expected when one is endeavouring not to reach the point of no return in polite company.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Elizabeth ventured, ‘if you dwelt a little less on sexual congress, and diverted your attention occasionally towards less titillating pursuits …’

  He gave a harsh laugh. ‘Like lacemaking, perhaps?’

  ‘Is it such a strange idea? You may find such activities have a soothing effect upon your libido, and your … problem … may not trouble you so.’

  Mr Darcy leant upon one elbow, and traced the contours of Elizabeth’s face with his freaky fingers. ‘Oh, Miss Bennet, you are so innocent,’ he sighed. His expression hardened. ‘I am no good for you. You should keep away from me.’

  ‘Wait a minute, you invited me here.’

  ‘Whatever. I am too insatiable, too kinky for you.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re asking, Elizabeth,’ he groaned.

  ‘Mr Darcy … Fitzwilliam … I would like to know the real you. Please – let me in.’

  Mr Darcy was lost in thought for a moment. Then he seemed to make a decision.

  ‘Come, Elizabeth. I am going to show you something that will make you wish you had never come to Pemberley.’

  It was with evident pride that Mr Darcy led Elizabeth about the finest rooms at Pemberley. There were stately galleries, elegant parlours and lofty bedchambers, all with magnificent views of the parkland beyond, and all lavishly decorated with sex-themed accessories. Everywhere Elizabeth looked were phallic vases, breast-shaped cushions and furry rugs that looked just like vulvas. Mr Darcy observed Elizabeth’s face closely, seeming to take delight in her mortification; he was particularly pleased to see her blush scarlet at the frescos of young men in fetish gear in The Old Queen’s Bedroom. And yet during the tour, Mr Darcy discussed the interior decor with such enthusiasm and knowledge – pointing out pelmets newly imported from France, and the exquisite detailing on the marquetry cabinets – that once again Elizabeth wondered whether he might be homosexual. Holy crap, he was so complicated!

  At last, exiting the ballroom – which was gaudily decorated with gilded testicles – Elizabeth allowed herself to be guided by Mr Darcy through a side door and into a narrow wood-panelled corridor. Unlike the handsomely proportioned room they had just left, it was dark and almost menacing, with no window of any kind to let in light and no portraits or other decoration enlivening the bare walls. In the dim light, Elizabeth could just discern a door at the end of the corridor, painted black or darkest blue, and adorned with a single ornate brass handle.

  ‘It is a magnificent knob, is it not?’ Mr Darcy remarked, raising one eyebrow. ‘I find when it comes to opening things up, a larger knob is far superior to a small one. And it is so much more satisfying to grasp.’

  Elizabeth sighed. If Mr Darcy’s ‘problem’ was ever to be overcome, then she would have to discourage this manner of conversation. She had had to throw a glass of water over him earlier in the scullery, when he had become overexcited pointing out a pair of particularly fine enormous jugs.

  ‘Mr Darcy, I have no particular wish to discourse about doorknobs, whatever their size,’ she exclaimed, her cheeks aglow. ‘I implore you to return to the subject at hand. You promised to show me your favourite room.’

  With a sudden whirling movement, Mr Darcy turned and gripped her arms fiercely. His eyes smouldered like hot coals in the darkness.

  ‘Yes, Elizabeth, you have seen all the rooms at Pemberley. All – except one,’ he said huskily. In such close proximity, Elizabeth could feel Mr Darcy’s hot breath on her skin, and smell his distinctive scent of animal musk and cheap supermarket body wash. She felt her knees giving way beneath her.

  Just as suddenly, Mr Darcy released her. A wicked grin lit up his chiselled face. Stretching out one of his extraordinarily long index fingers five or six feet to the end of the corridor, he caressed the paintwork of the door lovingly.

  ‘Yes, there is another room,’ Mr Darcy murmured, ‘the one closest to my heart – if indeed I possess such a thing. I show it only to those who intrigue me. Only those who I believe capable of’ – his eyes were truly blazing now, blowing out little puffs of smoke as they locked on to Elizabeth’s –‘pleasing me.’

  Elizabeth wilted under his gaze, like a six-day-old lettuce. ‘Pleasing you?’

  ‘Oh, Elizabeth …’ His index finger brushed her top lip. Crap, if only she’d shaved this morning! ‘Little, innocent Lizzy. What you saw in the Purple Pantry of Pleasure was nothing. My Lilac Library of Licentiousness is intended to but whet the appetite. This is where my true desires lie.’

  With that, Mr Darcy grasped the knob in his manly hands and thrust open the door. He smiled, and his grey eyes shot flames of desire towards hers, singeing her fringe and eyebrows.

  ‘Welcome,’ he announced, ‘to my Blue Broom Cupboard of Seriously Kinky Shit!’

  At first, Elizabeth could discern little of the contents therein; in the dim light, she was aware only of dark shapes – some long and narrow, others broader and more robust – outlined against the back wall of the cupboard. But as her eyes
became accustomed to the darkness, details began to leap out at her: the spikes of a scrubbing brush, the curves of a tennis racket.

  She gave a little gasp.

  ‘You like what you see, Miss Bennet?’

  Mr Darcy was immediately behind her now, his warm breath caressing her bare neck.

  Elizabeth’s own breathing was ragged. Every one of her senses was heightened; she felt giddy, as if she were on the edge of a cliff, looking down. Attached to gilded hooks set into the cupboard walls were instruments of every kind of punishment. Wooden spoons in various sizes. Fearsome-looking hairbrushes. Ping-pong bats, curtain tie-backs; she could even make out a monstrously large carpet beater. Their appearance was at once menacing and yet, in some strange way, thrilling.

  Her eyes fell upon one particularly terrifying-looking instrument: a long red stick, at the top of which were affixed scores of grey, rope-like tendrils. Elizabeth blanched.

  ‘What, pray, is that?’ she asked in a whisper.

  Mr Darcy shrugged. ‘Oh, that’s just a mop. I think one of the servants must have left it here.’

  He leant past her and from one of the hooks, took down a slim, bristled brush.

  ‘We shall start gently, Elizabeth,’ he said huskily, caressing the bristles of the brush between his long index fingers. ‘You deserve to be punished for your repeated impertinence and wilfulness, but I shall deliver no more pain than you can withstand. You are, after all, an innocent.’

  Elizabeth’s legs trembled. Holy flip, what was he planning?

  ‘Kneel, Elizabeth,’ Mr Darcy commanded. His whole body seemed to throb with desire, and Elizabeth, as if in a trance, did as she was bid. She knew not why, but she felt powerless to resist.

  ‘Now, bend over, on all fours.’

  Shakily, Elizabeth complied.

  At once, Mr Darcy’s strong hands were upon her, seizing her gown and petticoat at the hem and tugging them up, hard – oh, the disgrace! – to expose her stocking tops and bare derriere. Elizabeth flushed scarlet, and her breath came in little gasps.

  She felt Mr Darcy’s palm caress the curve of her behind.

  ‘Oh, Elizabeth,’ he murmured. ‘You are truly callipygous.’

  ‘Calli-what?’ she breathed.

  ‘It’s Greek, Elizabeth. It means you have a fantastic arse.’ Wow, he knew so much about stuff!

  Suddenly, Mr Darcy ceased his ministrations. ‘Enough!’ he barked. His tone had changed, and Elizabeth guessed that fondling was no longer his intention.

  ‘I am going to beat you with this toothbrush, Miss Bennet,’ Mr Darcy said huskily. ‘It will hurt, but you must show forbearance.’

  Elizabeth girded her loins, awaiting the blow.

  There was a tantalizing pause, and then – pfft! – Mr Darcy brought the toothbrush down on Elizabeth’s quivering flesh.

  ‘Again!’ Mr Darcy cried, and twice more the toothbrush grazed Elizabeth’s behind.

  ‘Is that good, Elizabeth?’ Mr Darcy asked, panting now.

  ‘Um …’ Elizabeth was uncertain how to respond without causing Mr Darcy distress. ‘I can’t really feel anything much.’

  ‘What, nothing?’

  ‘It kind of tickles, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh!’ Mr Darcy sounded deflated. He squeezed past her and rummaged in the broom cupboard for a minute or so, emerging with a devilish grin, brandishing a folded-up copy of the London Gazette.

  ‘I see we are going to have to be strict with you, Miss Bennet,’ he said lasciviously. ‘You evidently have a stronger constitution than I credited. Prepare yourself!’

  Pat! The newspaper flopped against her derriere.

  ‘Maybe if you rolled it up?’ suggested Elizabeth.

  ‘A wicked notion, Miss Bennet!’ Mr Darcy murmured. ‘I heartily approve.’

  There was a pause while Mr Darcy unfolded the newspaper, then rolled it into a thick stubby wand. Then unfolded it again and rolled it, more carefully this time, into a long, thin wand.

  Phtatt! Mr Darcy swung the newspaper against Elizabeth’s flesh.

  ‘My God, Elizabeth!’ he moaned, breathing heavily.

  Phtatt! Phtatt! Phtatt! Mr Darcy’s breathing was ragged now. ‘Feel it, Elizabeth!’ he groaned. ‘Give it to me!’

  Give what to him? Elizabeth wondered, feeling both mystified and slightly embarrassed. To be honest, this wasn’t really doing anything for her at all.

  ‘Come for me, baby!’ Mr Darcy said in a strangled whisper.

  Unsure of the ways of the flesh, Elizabeth plundered her memory for the only act of love she had ever witnessed: a bull tupping a cow on a neighbour’s farm. Tentatively, she let out a long, low ‘Mooooooo!’

  ‘Yes!!! My God, Lizzy!’ Mr Darcy cried in ecstasy, dropping to his knees. The newspaper wand fell limply from his grasp.

  When Elizabeth awoke the next morning in unfamiliar surroundings, for a moment she could not recollect where she was. Then fleeting remembrances of the evening before leapt, unbidden, into her mind.

  She was at Pemberley, in her new bedchamber. And – oh my! – Fitzwilliam Darcy had flogged her with a toothbrush, and a newspaper!

  Elizabeth turned over in bed, burying her face in the pillow. Perhaps if she fell asleep again, she would awaken at Longbourn, and the events of the previous evening would all prove to be nothing but a dream. While she lay dozing, she felt, rather than heard, the door open, and realized at once that there was someone else in the room.

  ‘I have taken the liberty of bringing you some breakfast.’

  Fitzwilliam Darcy, his lithe, muscly form clad in white pantaloons and a close-fitting vest, stood beside her bed with a tray laden with buttered buns, eggs, muffins, two blancmanges, a plum pudding, a flagon of ale and a roast rib of beef.

  ‘How are you feeling this morning?’

  ‘Quite well, thank you, Sir.’ Elizabeth’s gaze met his, but as ever, she was unable to divine what he was thinking. Those steel-grey eyes of his were impenetrable.

  Mr Darcy set down the tray on the edge of the bed.

  ‘It is nine o’clock, Miss Bennet,’ he said sternly.

  ‘Have you been up long, Mr Darcy?’

  ‘Indeed I have. I rose early this morning, in order to perform physical jerks with Taylor.’

  Elizabeth merely nodded.

  ‘I am, in fact, about to do my ablutions. You may, should you desire, give yourself a good scrub down with a flannel.’ He indicated a pitcher of water set upon the dresser. ‘You are a very dirty girl.’

  Evidently, there was to be no abatement in Mr Darcy’s ardour. Yesterday’s activities had but whetted his appetite for more.

  Mr Darcy perched upon the bedclothes and unfurled one of his long index fingers. Gently, he stroked Elizabeth’s hand.

  ‘I’d like to bite those nails,’ he murmured darkly.

  Oh my! Beneath the heavy bedclothes, Elizabeth squirmed in a most unladylike fashion.

  Suddenly, Mr Darcy appeared distracted, and he stood and walked briskly towards the door.

  ‘You will find some new clothes at the end of the bed,’ he said, turning in the doorway. ‘I would advise you to put them all on. It will be cold where we are going.’

  ‘And where, pray, might that be?’ Elizabeth asked apprehensively.

  Mr Darcy’s face was, once again, impassive. ‘Today, Miss Bennet, I am going to take you up the Peakshole.’

  At length, Elizabeth dressed and curled her hair under a beribboned blue bonnet that someone – presumably Mrs Jones or one of the maidservants – had provided. Mr Darcy himself was waiting for her at the bottom of the staircase, dressed in a billowing white shirt and tight breeches.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Bennet,’ he said gravely. ‘You look most becoming.’

  Proffering his arm, he led her out onto the terrace in front of the house, from where she could see the Derbyshire Peaks laid out before her. She and Mr Darcy circled round to the left and passed through a gate in a low wall to the kitchen garden, and from there proceeded to
the rose arbour and the topiary garden, on to the tea rooms and back round through the gift shop – holy heck, the grounds were vast! – finally emerging onto a lawn which led down to a wide, fast-flowing stream. A black-painted barge was moored there, secured to a tree stump, and within it, at the back, were seated three men of middling age carrying fiddles and a drum. Painted on the side of the barge, in gold lettering, was what Elizabeth presumed must be the barge’s name: SUV.

  ‘Step aboard, Miss Bennet,’ said Mr Darcy, bowing ceremoniously and holding out his hand. Elizabeth took it and, as she did so, a jolt of electricity shot through her body. Damn her plastic flip-flops!

  ‘Sit!’ Mr Darcy directed her to a chair, set facing the stern. There were buckles and ropes of every length dangling from its sides. Mr Darcy knelt before her, and carefully wrapped one of the ropes about her waist, tying it at the back of the chair. He looked up and smiled. Another strap he buckled about her arms, pinioning her to the chair back, while two more ropes bound her hands behind her back. Darcy fastened her ankles to the chair legs with a thick cord, and finally, inserted a ball gag into her mouth.

  ‘All safely strapped in, Miss Bennet? Then we are ready to sail.’

  Elizabeth watched in wonder as Mr Darcy deftly handled the rudder, guiding the barge out into midstream. It was thrilling! Her heart raced in her chest as the trees and riverbanks flew by at 0.003 miles per hour. Mr Darcy’s face was a mask of concentration. Just one wrong turn of the rudder and they might veer slightly to the left or to the right, or even bump into a floating log. Oh my! Her fate lay in Mr Darcy’s hands!

  ‘Mmmmf mf mmmmfff ummf fuf?’ she enquired.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Mmmmfff…’

  ‘Just a sec.’ Mr Darcy leant over and removed the ball gag from Elizabeth’s mouth.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Bennet?’

  ‘Where did you learn to sail, Mr Darcy?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve been coming up the Peakshole since I was a boy, Miss Bennet,’ he replied gaily. ‘The river runs through the Pemberley estate, and on through the village of Bumswell.’

  ‘And those gentlemen at the back? Are they villagers returning thither?’