Fifty Shades of Mr Darcy: A Parody

by William Codpiece Thwackery

  ‘Oooh, yeah, baby, that’s right,’ said Mr Darcy sexily. Or cheesily, depending on your point of view. ‘Do you want gravy with that?’

  ‘I do, I do!’ Elizabeth moaned. Delicious, savoury sauce dripped into her mouth. She swallowed hungrily, licking her lips clean of every last drop. Mr Darcy gave a moan.

  ‘I love to watch you eat, Elizabeth!’

  There was a pause, and Elizabeth felt Mr Darcy climb off her body and off the bed. She lay trembling, panting in anticipation. What was happening? Where was Mr Darcy? Then, out of nowhere, she felt hot liquid splashing all over her belly and thighs.

  ‘I have covered you in gravy, Elizabeth,’ Mr Darcy said, breathing heavily now. ‘If you move at all, you will get it all over the bedcovers. If that happens, you will have to pay the laundry bill.’

  Oh my! The salty sauce was hot on Elizabeth’s skin. She tensed her muscles, willing herself to stay still.

  ‘Oh Lizzy, what shall I do with you now?’ She felt one of Mr Darcy’s hands cup her right breast.

  ‘My sweet, sweet girl,’ he murmured, cupping her left breast in his other hand. ‘You. Are. Mine.’ She felt yet another hand between her legs. She gave a gasp. How did he do that? Her body, almost as if possessed, began to buck up against him.

  ‘Please …’ she begged, squirming.

  ‘What do you want me to do, Elizabeth?’ he murmured. Elizabeth began to quiver.

  ‘I need you, inside me,’ she groaned. She felt Mr Darcy sit up, and heard the rip of a foil packet.

  ‘What is that?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘Oh, I often rip up a few crisp packets before I have sex,’ Mr Darcy said airily. ‘It helps get me in the mood.’

  Rip! Rip! Rip! Elizabeth quivered in anticipation, lifting her hips off the bed in frustration. Then – oh no! – she felt a rivulet of salty liquid begin to crawl, slowly, down over her hip towards the bed.

  ‘You bad girl, Elizabeth! You got gravy on the bedclothes.’ The tone of Mr Darcy’s voice had immediately changed, and he sounded as if he was struggling to contain some violent emotion. ‘You disobeyed me.’ Mr Darcy snatched the cravat from her face, and she found herself staring straight into angry eyes the colour of a stormy sea.

  ‘What happens when you are disobedient?’

  Elizabeth gulped. ‘You … chastise me.’

  ‘That is correct.’ His voice was cold, distant, almost as if it were coming from another place. ‘You have been a bad, bad girl. You will get ten strokes of my rod.’

  He was going to allow her to touch him at last? Elizabeth couldn’t believe her luck.

  ‘Not that kind of stroke, dumb-ass,’ her Subconscious broke in. ‘He’s talking about the painful kind.’

  Elizabeth was crestfallen. She had been close – so close – to actually getting a seeing-to. Would it ever bloody happen?

  ‘Turn over, Elizabeth,’ Mr Darcy commanded. Elizabeth felt something stir deep in her belly. Something that felt like resentment.

  ‘I told you to turn over!’ Mr Darcy grabbed Elizabeth’s hips and spun her so she was face down upon the bed, her face pressed against the pillow, and her naked behind exposed to his scrutiny. Elizabeth tensed her buttocks. Then, realizing this might make her cellulite more obvious, she relaxed them. Her behind wobbled like a sexy pink blancmange.

  ‘My God, Elizabeth,’ Mr Darcy gasped. ‘You are so ready for me! Prepare yourself for my rod!’

  ‘One!’ Mr Darcy cried, bringing something light – a twig, perhaps? A pencil? – down firmly on Elizabeth’s tender flesh. Elizabeth heaved a sigh of exasperation.

  ‘Two!’ Mr Darcy exclaimed, and again, the twig/pencil thwacked against her skin with minimal effect. She yawned.

  ‘You’re a naughty girl, Elizabeth,’ Mr Darcy murmured, rubbing his hand over her buttocks gently. ‘And you’re mine, all mine.’

  ‘Three!’ If he hadn’t counted, Elizabeth wouldn’t even have noticed the third blow. She lay back and found herself thinking, strangely, of England. What a super place it was to live!

  ‘Four!’ Again, the twig/pencil made contact, and again Elizabeth was unmoved. Tears began to prick her eyes. This was not what she had signed up for. She had been expecting earth-shattering, brain-melting, heart-stopping orgasms, not this.

  ‘Fluffy kittens!’ she cried, tears beginning to streak down her cheeks. ‘Fluffy kittens! Fluffy kittens!’

  The effect was instantaneous. ‘Elizabeth?’ Mr Darcy said anxiously.

  Sitting up and pulling the sheet towards her body, Elizabeth dragged herself off the bed and headed for the bathroom. It was only when she reached her bedroom door that she remembered that bathrooms didn’t come into existence until the Victorian era, so she headed for the armoire instead, stepping in and shutting herself inside. Squatting on the cupboard floor, she hugged her knees to her chest and sobbed.

  ‘Please, Lizzy, let me in.’ Mr Darcy was leaning against the armoire door, his body pressed against it. She imagined she could feel his breath, still ragged from his exertions, hot upon her neck.

  ‘Are you ever, ever going to actually make love to me, Mr Darcy?’

  ‘That’s what you want?’ he sounded mystified.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I want,’ she cried. ‘All this “naughty girl” this, and “bad girl” that – I’m beginning to think it’s all just an excuse to avoid actual rumpy pumpy.’ She paused. ‘Are you gay?’ Holy heck, she couldn’t believe she’d just asked that question.

  There was silence for a few moments. ‘No, Elizabeth, I’m not gay,’ Mr Darcy said firmly. ‘I’m sorry. I wish I could change. I just have this need. My urge to hit young ladies with various household implements, it’s part of me. It’s probably all my mother’s fault.’ He sounded so downcast, so forlorn, that despite herself, Elizabeth felt a pang of sympathy. Fitzwilliam Darcy was lost, lost to the dark side.

  ‘Please … Please, Elizabeth,’ he entreated, ‘don’t hate me.’

  ‘I don’t hate you, Fitzwilliam,’ Elizabeth replied softly, opening the door just a crack.

  ‘Ooooh! I can see your crack, Elizabeth!’ Mr Darcy gave a childish giggle.

  Furiously, Elizabeth pulled the door to. ‘And puerile, schoolboy humour – is that part of who you are, too?’

  There was silence for a moment. Then Mr Darcy spoke, seriously this time: ‘I don’t think I can change, Elizabeth. It’s almost as if I cannot help myself. Smut comes from deep within me. It’s as much a part of me as being British, and male.’

  ‘Then I think it would be best if you left,’ Elizabeth called out from the sanctuary of the armoire.

  ‘You cannot mean that!’

  Fresh tears spilled down Elizabeth’s cheeks. ‘I do. We cannot be together. I want what you cannot give me, and I cannot give you what you need.’

  She heard Mr Darcy’s footsteps pacing to and fro. ‘Do not do this, Elizabeth. I will be lost without you.’

  ‘Then go back to Lady Catherine,’ Elizabeth said bitterly. ‘She will take you under her bingo wings. You may flog each other to death for all I care!’

  More footsteps, and the door to her bedroom slammed shut. Fitzwilliam Darcy had gone. The only man Elizabeth had ever desired, the only man she had ever loved, etc, etc. Gone, for about the fourth time. It was all becoming a bit predictable.

  One morning, about a week after Mr Darcy’s departure, as Elizabeth and the other females of the family were sitting together in the dining room, their attention was suddenly drawn to the window by the sound of a carriage, and they perceived a chaise and four driving up the lawn.

  The coat of arms – a pair of naked buttocks surrounded by vicious-looking spikes – was unfamiliar, and they could not guess who their visitor might be. Although when Elizabeth noted that the footmen accompanying the carriage were wearing leather thongs and biker boots, she guessed at once.

  ‘I believe Lady Catherine de Burgh is honouring us with a visit,’ she said coolly.

  Indeed, a few moments later, Lady C
atherine herself swept into the parlour, flanked by four flunkies flagellating each other with floggers.

  Mrs Bennet, Kitty and Mary curtseyed low, clearly awed by such alliteration. Elizabeth merely tilted her chin in acknowledgement. But Lady Catherine disdained their welcome. Without saying a word, she made for a chair and attempted to sit down, her leather catsuit creaking. It was only on her third attempt that she finally succeeded.

  ‘You do us great honour with a visit, m’lady,’ Mrs Bennet trilled, obviously thrilled to have so high-born a guest sitting in her humble parlour.

  ‘That lady, I suppose, is your mother?’ Lady Catherine addressed the question to Elizabeth.

  ‘Yes, Madam, she is,’ Elizabeth replied coldly.

  ‘Then pray have her fetch me some talcum powder,’ Lady Catherine commanded. ‘The journey from Rosings was most uncomfortable and I am chafed all over by this new outfit. The leather has not been broken in yet.’

  Mrs Bennet hastened out of the room, calling Kitty and Mary to help her, and Elizabeth and Lady Catherine were left quite alone.

  Lady Catherine surveyed the room disdainfully. ‘You have a very small house, Miss Bennet,’ she remarked. ‘Not much room to swing a cat o’ nine tails.’

  Elizabeth smiled. ‘I have no interest in swinging, Madam. I spend most of my time engaged in less perverted pursuits, such as gardening and walking.’

  Her visitor gave a sneer. ‘Gardening and walking? How ever do you hope to ensnare Mr Darcy with interests such as those?’

  ‘I assure you, I have no interest in ensnaring Mr Darcy,’ Elizabeth replied. ‘He and I are very different characters, and unsuited to be in each other’s company.’

  Lady Catherine seemed to relax. ‘That is so,’ she commented. ‘He has a dark, kinky heart, and only someone who shares his predilections can ever truly understand him.’

  ‘It is a great shame that he is so kinky,’ said Elizabeth, standing up. ‘He has been ruined, in my opinion, and will never know how to truly please a woman.’

  Lady Catherine attempted to stand. She creaked audibly.

  ‘Help me up, girl!’ she snapped. Elizabeth stretched out a reluctant hand, and Lady Catherine, seizing it, hauled herself upright. ‘Let us take a walk in your garden,’ she suggested.

  ‘In those heels?’ Elizabeth said incredulously. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Don’t argue with me, Miss Bennet. I wish to see your box. I have heard that it is most impressive.’

  Together they proceeded through the French windows and out onto the gravel path leading to the formal garden. Lady Catherine tottered dangerously on her spike stilettos, and clasped Elizabeth’s arm for support.

  ‘You must have guessed, I suppose, why I came here,’ she remarked.

  ‘I confess, I cannot imagine why you graced us with your presence,’ Elizabeth replied, ‘unless you have brought news from Hunsford, of Mr and Mrs Phil Collins.’

  Lady Catherine narrowed her eyes. ‘Do not trifle with me, Miss Bennet. There is one reason and one only for my visit, and that is to command you to break off all contact with Mr Darcy.’

  ‘And I have already informed you that my acquaintance with Mr Darcy, such as it was, has ceased.’

  ‘We both know that is not true,’ Lady Catherine said angrily. ‘Why, then, would he come to me at Rosings to tell me he does not wish to continue as my Submissive?’

  Elizabeth started as if struck. Mr Darcy wished to hang up his leather hotpants? She could not imagine such a thing!

  ‘I believe that your arts and allurements may have temporarily made him forget what he owes to me, and to himself.’

  ‘My arts?’

  ‘Your talk of holding hands, of kissing, of tender touching …’ Lady Catherine’s face was screwed up with distaste. ‘Mr Darcy is mine,’ she continued. ‘My plaything, to do with as I please. It has always been so, and it always will be so.’

  Elizabeth pictured Mr Darcy passing round the peanuts at Rosings, his eyes downcast, his demeanour humble, his hotpants riding up his well-formed buttocks ...

  ‘But if Mr Darcy does not wish to continue as your slave, does he have no choice in the matter?’

  ‘He does not know his own mind!’ exclaimed Lady Catherine. ‘You have quite turned his head, with your big, goofy eyes and your fresh, innocent loveliness. Under your influence, he is even considering getting a puppy. The other day, he suggested that instead of anal probing, we might enjoy a jigsaw together.’ Lady Catherine gave Elizabeth a withering look. ‘No, I will brook no argument. You must be the one to command him to return to me.’

  Something stirred in Elizabeth. ‘Why, Madam, should I do any such thing?’ she asked. ‘I see no reason why I should help you in your kinky fuckery. Pray, give me a good reason why I should aid you?’

  ‘Because I say so! And I am a dominatrix! Everyone does what I say!’

  ‘Then you are mistaken, Madam,’ she said coldly, raising her chin and pulling her shoulders back. ‘I do not do what you say. I am Elizabeth Bennet. I am a heroine to generations of young women, who admire me for my wit, my bravery and my indefatigable spirit. It takes more than a dried-up, domineering old bitch who wears way too much make-up to intimidate me.’

  Lady Catherine’s eyes widened in shock. ‘You dare to defy me?’ she asked, her voice quavering in anger. ‘And by the way, I don’t wear too much make-up. I only have on a bit of mascara and a touch of nude lipgloss.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ cried Elizabeth. ‘Well, I’ve got something else for your face right here!’ And drawing back her hand she gave Lady Catherine an almighty slap; the older woman tottered on her spike stilettos for a moment, her arms windmilling wildly, then fell backwards into a gorse bush. Elizabeth surveyed her coldly; Lady Catherine’s blonde hair extensions had snagged on the thorns, and her chicken fillets had slipped down to her navel.

  ‘Now then,’ Elizabeth mused, bending down to pick up a solid-looking birch branch that lay on the lawn at her feet, ‘get onto all fours, you old hag, while I give you a taste of your own medicine!’

  The surprise of the rest of the Bennet family at Lady Catherine’s visit was nothing to their shock at seeing her hobble back to her carriage, bent double with a birch twig poking out of an unmentionable part of her anatomy. Elizabeth explained, however, that Lady Catherine had slipped on some damp leaves in the orchard and fallen into a pile of sharp branches, with unfortunate results. Thankfully, no more questions were asked, and Elizabeth was convinced that was the end of the matter. She could not believe that Lady Catherine’s influence over Mr Darcy had declined so much that he would seek to renew his acquaintance with the Bennet family after such an insult to his godmother, let alone cast off the trappings of his S&M lifestyle.

  Yet the very next morning, Mr Bennet called her into his study.

  ‘Lizzy, I have had a letter that has surprised me greatly,’ be began. ‘I had no idea, none at all, that I had two daughters on the verge of matrimony.’

  ‘Whackem and Lydia are to marry after all?’ Elizabeth asked in a shocked voice.

  ‘No, my dear, the letter regards you, and our mutual friend Mr Darcy.’ Mr Bennet waved the letter in front of her. ‘In this very missive, he has asked me for your hand in marriage.’

  Elizabeth blanched. She put her hand out to the bookcase to steady herself.

  ‘Are you feeling faint, Lizzy?’ her stepfather asked in a concerned voice.

  ‘It is simply that I am shocked,’ she replied. ‘I am not sure I want to marry Mr Darcy. My experiences so far …’

  Mr Bennet’s brow furrowed. ‘He has not treated you kindly?’

  ‘He has, in many regards, used me very ill.’

  ‘Has he ever hit you, child?’

  Elizabeth nodded. ‘He has.’

  ‘And abused you in other ways?’

  ‘Yes, in countless, filthy ways you cannot even begin to imagine.’

  ‘And is he still as arrogant and proud as he was upon your first meeting?’

  �
��Nothing has changed in that regard.’

  ‘Then of course you must not marry him!’ Mr Bennet cried. ‘I will not have my favourite stepdaughter shackled to such a beast. Oh, wait a minute …’ He glanced down at the letter. ‘I forgot, there was a PS somewhere. Let’s see … Oh, yes, that’s it. He says he really, really likes fishing.’

  ‘And?’ Elizabeth asked, nonplussed.

  ‘I really like fishing, too!’ exclaimed her stepfather. ‘The matter is settled then. I shall write at once, giving my permission for Mr Darcy to come to Longbourn and claim you as his bride. Run along now and fetch me a cold beer, there’s a good girl.’

  Thus it was that Mr Darcy arrived at Longbourn some three days later, accompanied by Mr Bingley. Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed a walk about the grounds, a plan that Mr Darcy happily agreed to, and Elizabeth less happily so. Mr Darcy, she fancied, seemed a little more humble than usual. His arrogant swagger was still in evidence, and his permanent smirk, but his eyes betrayed some inner anxiety. As soon as he was able, he led Elizabeth down a different route from that taken by the newly engaged couple, and together they walked arm in arm through the shrubbery.

  ‘My dear Miss Bennet,’ Mr Darcy began, with a formality to which she was unaccustomed. ‘I understand you lately received a visit from Lady Catherine de Burgh.’

  Elizabeth’s countenance betrayed nothing. ‘That is correct, Mr Darcy,’ she replied, with equal politeness. ‘She did us the honour of calling upon us.’

  ‘And I understand that you thrashed her black and blue.’

  ‘I did, Mr Darcy.’

  They walked on together for a few moments in companionable silence.

  ‘Am I to understand from this,’ Mr Darcy asked in a low voice, ‘that I might have cause to hope?’

  ‘To hope for what?’ Elizabeth asked, her blue eyes widening in surprise. ‘That I will resubmit to your will, and become your sex slave once again? That I will agree to live an orgasm-free existence at Pemberley?’