Fifty Shades of Mr Darcy: A Parody

by William Codpiece Thwackery

  Abruptly, Mr Darcy stood up, his enormous penis swinging like a pendulum.

  ‘Because I hated her!’ he shouted. Elizabeth started. He sounded so vehement, so full of loathing.

  ‘She met my father – the best of men, the kindest, the most honourable – in her salon in London, when he went for a full-body wax,’ he snarled. ‘Except this was no ordinary salon.’

  Elizabeth was silent, watching him. He paced up and down, his eyes fixed upon the floorboards, as if the memories were threatening to overwhelm him.

  She prompted gently: ‘They offered extras?’

  Mr Darcy nodded grimly. ‘Indeed. So my mother was … was …’

  ‘A back, sack and crack whore,’ Elizabeth murmured.

  ‘That is correct.’ Mr Darcy’s shoulders shook and for a moment Elizabeth wondered whether he might begin to cry again. Instead, he picked up the jack-in-the-box and held it close to his chest. Elizabeth felt a wave of tenderness overwhelm her.

  ‘But surely …’ she said tentatively, ‘you cannot know what circumstances led your mother to that fate? You cannot blame her entirely. You, who have worked so tirelessly with fallen women yourself, must have some sympathy for her plight.’

  Mr Darcy sighed. ‘If only that were all, Elizabeth,’ he murmured. ‘But you see, my mother never loved me. She was neglectful, cold and distant. When she left the salon to marry my father, she developed other interests.’

  Elizabeth’s eyes widened.

  ‘She became obsessed with ornithology,’ Mr Darcy continued, ‘with studying the birds that lived in the lakes and grounds of Pemberley. Nothing else mattered, it was all she talked of. Her specialism was ducks.’

  Elizabeth had a terrible feeling she knew where this was going.

  ‘So she was … a quack bore?’

  ‘She was, for many years, then mammals became her hobby. When she opened her yak store …’

  ‘Pray, stop now. I have heard enough,’ Elizabeth exclaimed.

  ‘Now can you see why I resent her so?’ Mr Darcy burst out. ‘She was never a true mother to me. If it hadn’t been for her best friend, Lady Catherine, taking an interest in me, I would be lost.’

  Elizabeth bridled. ‘Some would say that Lady Catherine’s interest in you was malign. That had she not exerted her influence over you, your character would have been less inclined towards darkness.’

  ‘That is not true.’ He smiled lasciviously, and the other Fitzwilliam, the sex-crazed one, was back. ‘She made me what I am today. Which means you must get back to bed, Miss Bennet. I want you well rested and ready for more rumpy pumpy tomorrow.’

  Rumpy pumpy? That sounded so … hot. Elizabeth felt her secret parts clench in excitement.

  ‘I wondered whether, before the rumpy pumpy’ – Elizabeth flushed just saying the words – ‘we might perhaps take the chaise into the hills and picnic there? I hear there are most excellent views all the way to Yorkshire.’

  Mr Darcy gave a sardonic smile. ‘I am not the picnicking kind, Miss Bennet. I do not do dainty cakes and pastries and polite conversation. Although I did once have a memorable al fresco experience with a veal-and-ham pie …’ Mr Darcy appeared lost in thought for a moment. ‘No, Elizabeth, my tastes extend only to darker things.’

  ‘So, you have never enjoyed innocent pastimes with a woman, only lewd acts?’ Elizabeth asked, aghast. ‘Have you never played cribbage, or discussed poetry with a paramour?’

  ‘Never, Miss Bennet.’

  ‘You have never enjoyed a turn about a formal garden, or played croquet or ringtoss on the lawn?’

  ‘No. Well, maybe the last one.’

  Elizabeth could find no comfort in his honesty. Although he had, from the outset, made it clear what she could expect from a life of sexual slavery at Pemberley, she inexplicably found herself wishing for more. An orgasm, for instance, would be nice.

  Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not receiving any letters from Jane since her arrival at Pemberley, but eventually her repining was over, as two letters arrived at once. One was clearly marked that it had been mis-sent elsewhere, a fact that Elizabeth found unsurprising, given that it was marked, simply, ‘Elizabeth @ The Sex Dungeon’.

  She opened the mis-sent letter first. It contained news of Longbourn and her family’s parties and engagements, but the latter half, evidently written in haste, gave more important intelligence.

  ‘Something has occurred of a most unexpected and serious nature,’ Jane wrote. ‘What I have to say relates to poor Lydia. A message came at midnight last night, from the barracks, to inform us that she was gone off to the BookExpo in New York with Mr Whackem. It seems, unbeknownst to any of us, that Mr Whackem and Lydia had lately been in discussion about – forgive my indelicacy, Lizzy – work, and Lydia’s head was quite turned by thoughts of a career; you know how vain and headstrong she is. It seems Mr Whackem has somehow enticed her to join his publishing house, with promises of a salary and future advancement. Lydia left a few lines for us, informing us of their intentions to visit a number of trade fairs in the US. But as yet we know no more. Be assured, Lizzy, I shall write again when we have more news.’

  Without allowing herself time for consideration, Elizabeth, on finishing this letter, instantly seized the other. It had been written a day later than the conclusion of the first, and read as follows:

  By this time, dearest sister, you will know of our fears that Lydia now has a job. I am afraid I have worse news for you, and it cannot be delayed. We now hear, through associates of Whackem’s, that he has little intention of providing Lydia with a salary. She is to be an unpaid intern, and receive no remuneration for her pains. It is scandalous! Poor, foolish Lydia. To be enticed with promises of advancement in the publishing world, only to be duped into doing the photocopying, picking up Whackem’s dry cleaning and organizing the office Christmas party for nothing. Our one consolation is that she is not the first young lady of respectable birth to suffer in this way.

  There is not much more to tell. Our stepfather has gone to Bristol, to see if he can catch Whackem and Lydia before they sail. Mother is beside herself with grief and keeps to her room; she says she fears Lydia will never be deflowered now, and will doubtless go to London and become a lesbian. As for myself, I cannot help but think the worst. If Whackem is to use Lydia in this cruel way, she is lost. She will never wish to return to a life of respectable gentility – of découpage and needlework and staring at the wainscoting – once she has sampled the sinful life of a publishing assistant. She will burn her stays and become a feminist!

  ‘Oh, what to do?’ cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat as she finished the letter, and making for the door, as if to pursue the unhappy couple herself. At that moment, Mr Darcy appeared. Elizabeth’s wild countenance made him start, but before he could speak, she hastily exclaimed: ‘I beg your pardon but I must take my leave. There are events unfolding at Longbourn that require my attention, and my departure cannot be delayed.’

  ‘My God, what is the matter?’ Darcy asked urgently, his smoky-grey eyes full of concern. ‘Are you ill? Can I get you a bacon sandwich?’

  ‘No, I thank you,’ she replied faintly, endeavouring to recover herself. ‘I am quite well. I have just received some news from Longbourn which has distressed me, that is all.’

  Anxiously, she began biting her nails. Darcy made a low, guttural growling sound.

  ‘Don’t do that, Elizabeth,’ he murmured. ‘You know what it does to me.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Elizabeth, dropping her hands into her lap. ‘I did not mean to set your passions aflame.’

  Mr Darcy’s eyes were cloudy and intense. Was his conjunctivitis ever going to clear up?

  ‘Bend over, Elizabeth.’

  ‘Mr Darcy, this is neither the time nor the place,’ entreated Elizabeth.

  ‘I am going to give it to you – hard.’

  ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, desist, Mr Darcy, I beg you!’ Elizabeth cried. ‘I do not wish to receive it at t
his particular moment in time, hard or otherwise! If you truly want to be of assistance to me, please be so good as to order a carriage to take me to town, that I may catch the next post to Hertfordshire.’

  ‘May I not flog you first?’

  ‘I have not a moment to lose.’

  ‘Then I suppose a handjob is out of the question, too?’

  ‘You are correct, Mr Darcy.’

  For a moment Mr Darcy’s eyes flashed fire. Then his exquisite features seemed to soften, and he gave a regretful sigh. ‘Of course I will help you, Elizabeth. I would do anything for you. But just give me a few moments alone first, in my study.’ He walked stiffly towards the door. ‘By the way, do you happen to have a pocket handkerchief I could borrow?’

  Mr Darcy insisted on accompanying Elizabeth in the carriage as far as Derby, and during the journey she explained to him the circumstances of Lydia and Whackem’s business trip.

  ‘I cannot help but feel I am to blame,’ Elizabeth lamented. ‘If I had made known to the world even a little of what you told me about Whackem’s character and his abominable treatment of your sister, this would not have happened.’

  Mr Darcy’s jaw was set in a firm line, and his brow was furrowed. ‘Is it absolutely certain?’ he asked. ‘Could it be, perchance, that Lydia failed the second interview, or has not yet signed the contract?’

  ‘It is quite certain. Whackem intends to employ her as soon as possible.’

  At the thought of the humiliation, the misery that Lydia was bringing upon them all, fresh tears sprang to Elizabeth’s eyes. ‘May I borrow back my handkerchief?’ she enquired of her companion.

  Mr Darcy shifted in his seat awkwardly. ‘Um, you might not want to do that, Elizabeth.’

  Elizabeth stared out of the window in misery. ‘I still cannot understand why Lydia was interested in a job in publishing in the first place,’ she pondered. ‘I mean, she doesn’t even know the difference between “discreet” and “discrete”.’

  Twang! One of Mr Darcy’s long index fingers shot out and gently brushed away her tears.

  ‘Elizabeth, I cannot bear to see you distressed. It cuts to the heart of my dark soul,’ he whispered. He reached into his waistcoat pocket. ‘Here is something to make you smile.’ He held out his palm towards her.

  ‘Pray, what are these?’ asked Elizabeth, gazing with curiosity upon the mysterious oval objects displayed before her.

  ‘They are love eggs,’ replied Mr Darcy huskily.

  Elizabeth’s interest was piqued. ‘Are they ornaments, Mr Darcy?’ she enquired. ‘If so, they are a little ostentatious for my taste.’

  Darcy smiled darkly. ‘No one will see them, Elizabeth. You wear them on the inside.’

  Elizabeth gasped. Her Subconscious fainted. And even her Inner Slapper poured herself a stiff measure of gin.

  ‘I want you to kneel on the floor of the carriage now, Elizabeth,’ murmured Mr Darcy.

  Elizabeth hesitated. Taylor was up above, driving the horses – what if he were to discern something untoward?

  ‘Do as you are bid!’ Mr Darcy commanded.

  Awkwardly, for it was a narrow carriage, Elizabeth knelt down at Mr Darcy’s feet.

  ‘Good girl,’ Mr Darcy murmured. ‘Now, tell me, Elizabeth, tell me what you want me to do.’

  Elizabeth swallowed nervously. ‘You may do whatever you want … Sir.’

  She felt her skirts being lifted and then, with one powerful hand, Darcy ripped her bloomers into shreds. Elizabeth’s body shook in anticipation.

  ‘Brace yourself, Elizabeth,’ Mr Darcy rasped, and suddenly she felt a cold sensation in her most unmentionable bodily part.

  ‘Oh!’ she gasped in surprise.

  ‘Does that feel agreeable?’ asked Mr Darcy in a low, soft voice.

  Elizabeth’s breath came in little gasps as she grew accustomed to the sensation. ‘I believe so,’ she panted.

  ‘You may sit up now, Miss Bennet.’

  Trembling, Elizabeth straightened up and rearranged herself on the seat opposite Mr Darcy. What a queer sensation! It was both alarming, and yet intensely pleasurable. As the carriage jolted and shook, she became increasingly giddy and distracted. Oh my! Mr Darcy watched her with a salacious smile.

  ‘Taylor!’ he called up to his manservant. ‘Is the Bakewell road still studded with potholes?’

  ‘I believe it is, Sir.’

  ‘Then go that way, will you?’

  When Elizabeth finally alighted on the steps of Longbourn, her joy and relief at seeing Jane waiting for her were considerable. Indeed, her felicity almost banished all thought of the love eggs, until Jane commented on her flushed face and unusual waddling gait.

  As the sisters affectionately embraced, Elizabeth asked: ‘Is there any more news of Lydia and Whackem?’

  ‘None as yet,’ Jane replied. ‘Stepfather wrote to say he had arrived in Bristol, but there is no sign of them at the port. But that was his final word.’

  ‘And Mama? How does she fare?’

  ‘She is greatly shaken. She asks after you. Pray, go up and see her in her chamber.’

  Mrs Bennet, to whose apartment Elizabeth repaired, received her exactly as expected, with tears, lamentations, and tirades against the treachery of Mr Whackem.

  ‘A publishing executive? What manner of occupation is that?’ she complained. ‘Whackem is a scoundrel, a cad and a scoundrel! I was certain Lydia would be seduced by him, and indeed, she was of the same mind. We even bought condoms for her to carry in her reticule, just in case. And now it seems he had little interest in her body at all! He saw only a foolish middle-class girl ripe for the picking, her head easily turned by talk of foreign-rights contracts, royalties and jacket proofs! To offer her work experience, indeed! My daughter, the working girl! I shall never recover from this, never!’

  ‘Do not give way to alarm, Mother,’ Elizabeth cautioned. ‘Mr Bennet may yet find them before any real harm can be done. If Lydia can be brought back to Longbourn before she has been shown how to use a photocopier, maybe all will be well.’

  ‘That is more than I could hope for,’ lamented Mrs Bennet. ‘He must find them, and if Lydia will not come home to a life of mindless, soul-destroying domesticity, then he must at least persuade Whackem to pay her a salary. That, at least, would be a consolation. Oh why could Lydia not have considered escort work. There, at least, is an occupation with prospects!’

  Elizabeth reassured her mother, and yet privately, she believed there was little hope. Especially when Lydia’s own letter, left at the barracks, was read out to her by Jane.

  My dear Mama and sisters,

  You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help laughing myself at your surprise tomorrow morning, as soon as I am missed. I am going to the BookExpo in New York! And if you cannot guess who with, I shall think you all simpletons, for there is only one officer in the militia who runs an independent publishing company as a sideline. Whackem has promised to introduce me to Coleridge, to Lord Byron and many of our other leading literary figures. I am to be his ‘Editorial Secretary’ – how grand that sounds! I am not to receive a salary to begin with, but if I work hard, and become a team player, I am assured that ‘there will be other opportunities within the company going forward’. Just think of all the shoes and reticules I will be able to buy with my first pay cheque! Goodbye, until we meet again. I hope you will drink a toast to my success!

  Lydia xxx

  The third and fourth Miss Bennets displayed very different reactions to Lydia’s missive. Kitty was pleased that her main rival for the attention of the officers had quit Longbourn for good, and therefore announced herself delighted with Lydia’s predicament.

  ‘She will be a hatchet-faced, dried-up old bag when she returns!’ she said triumphantly. ‘I have heard that working for a living does that to a person.’

  Mary, however, was typically condemnatory.

  ‘It can only have a detrimental effect on Lydia’s character,’ she declared. ‘She
may have been previously vain and silly, but as a business executive, she will become crass, self-deluding, pompous and clueless. We’ve all seen The Apprentice.’ And with that she disappeared back into the music room with an anxious-looking Mr Fiddler, who had declared that her lesson was by no means over, not least until she had performed an arpeggio or two.

  Every day at Longbourn now was a day of anxiety; but the most anxious part of each was when the post was expected. The arrival of letters was the first grand object of every morning’s impatience. But before they heard again from their stepfather, a letter arrived from a different quarter, from Hunsford and Mr Phil Collins. Jane opened it over breakfast, and together the sisters read:

  My dear Mr and Mrs Bennet,

  I feel called upon to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now suffering under, of which we have recently been informed. The death of your daughter would have been a blessing in comparison to this. You are grievously to be pitied, in which opinion I am joined not only by Mrs Collins, but by our dear Lady Catherine de Burgh, who states that no daughter of hers would be seen dead in an office. She agrees with me that one false step in one daughter will be injurious to the prospects of all the rest, as, Lady Catherine says, who would connect themselves now with such a family? I advise you both to throw off your unworthy child from your affection for ever. The only comfort I can give you now in your time of need is to share my own strategy for dealing with misfortune: when I’m feelin’ blue, all I have to do, is take a look at you, then I’m not so blue. You could try that. Although it depends who you’re looking at, I suppose.

  Yours, Phil Collins

  ‘Pompous twat,’ muttered Elizabeth, most unladylikely. Her relief at being Mr Darcy’s kinky-sex slave rather than Mr Collins’s wife had never been greater. Elizabeth did wonder, however, why Mr Darcy had not written. Was he angry with her for returning to Longbourn?

  It seemed, now, from talk in Meryton, that Whackem had left considerable debts behind in the town, owing some £2 at the paper mill, and only a little less at the printers.