Fifty Shades of Mr Darcy: A Parody (11 page)

Oh my! What was this?

Mr Darcy, who was leaning against the mantelpiece with his eyes fixed upon her face, surveyed her hopefully. Elizabeth continued reading.

Mr Darcy fidgeted impatiently. ‘Just skip to the dirty bits,’ he urged. ‘That’s what everyone else does.’

Elizabeth unrolled the scroll further, and gave a gasp.

Her hands fell into her lap, and the document slithered to the floor.

‘Say you’ll sign, Elizabeth,’ Darcy urged, his grey eyes smouldering. ‘My penis depends upon it.’

‘
Your penis depends upon it?
’ Hot tears welled up in Elizabeth’s eyes. ‘Not your happiness, Mr Darcy? Have you no tender feelings at all?’ Colour rose in her
cheeks and her eyes flashed in anger. ‘You cannot seriously expect me to accept these terms?’

‘Am I to understand that you are
refusing
me?’ Mr Darcy said incredulously, surprise etched upon his handsome features.

Elizabeth stood up, unsteadily, and declared in a voice that shook with emotion: ‘You could not, Sir, have made me the offer of being your sex slave in any possible way that would have
tempted me to accept it.’

Mr Darcy’s astonishment was obvious, and he looked at her with an expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on:

‘From the very beginning, from the first moment, I may almost say, of my acquaintance with you, your manners impressed me with the fullest belief of your sex mania, your arrogance, and
your verging-on-stalkerish behaviour. I have recognized you as an overgrown public schoolboy with a penis fixation. What is more, your constant exhortations to “Oooh, give it to me,
baby,” belong in a bad amateur porn film rather than a romantic novel. In short, Mr Darcy, your character needs more weight.’

Mr Darcy’s mouth set in a grim line. ‘I must take issue with you, Miss Bennet,’ he remarked coldly. ‘I am, as you know, unbelievably hot, which makes most of my character
flaws forgivable. If a balding, paunchy middle-aged guy with bad shoes kept turning up when you least expected it, it would be creepy; when I do it, it is both ardent and deeply
flattering.’

‘You, Sir, are a badly drawn, one-dimensional figure!’ Elizabeth countered. ‘Fifty shades? More like two: “gagging for sex”, that’s one, and “in a bad
mood”.’

Anger made her voluble, and she continued: ‘Who –
who
– I ask you, at twenty-seven, controls a multimillion global company just by occasionally picking up the phone and
saying, “Talk to Peters”, and “Get it there by Tuesday”? What do you actually
do
anyway? Furthermore, what heterosexual man even has tracks by Nelly Furtado on his
iPod, let alone considers them a suitably erotic soundtrack for an S&M sex session?’

‘Miss Bennet,’ Mr Darcy remarked coldly, ‘I do believe you are discussing the wrong book.’

Elizabeth checked herself. ‘You are correct, Mr Darcy,’ she replied gravely. ‘On that point I must beg your forgiveness. It is somewhat confusing being in a mash-up of two very
different novels.’

‘No matter, Miss Bennet,’ Darcy answered curtly. ‘I believe you have made your intentions clear. I perfectly comprehend your feelings. Forgive me for prevailing upon your time,
and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.’

And with these words he hastily left the room, his grey flannel breeches hanging so far off his hips that Elizabeth was afforded a last, tantalizing glimpse of his bicycle rack, and she heard
him the next moment open the front door and quit the house.

The tumult of Elizabeth’s mind was now painfully great. Her astonishment, as she reflected upon what had passed, was increased by every review of it. That Mr Darcy should suggest that she
become his sex slave! It was an abomination! And yet, the tumult of Elizabeth’s ladyparts was equally great. Why did her heart race, and her bloomers quiver, at the thought of submitting to
Mr Darcy’s every whim? She picked up the contract again, and glanced at the licentious, shocking words written therein.

‘Bondage with curtain trimmings,’ she read. ‘Blindfolding’; ‘gagging’; ‘spreader bars’ – what could they possibly be? Heat suffused her
body, and she fanned herself frantically with the parchment. To think that she, Elizabeth Bennet, was tempted to abandon her family and her reputation, and enter a world of sado-masochistic sex!
And that Fitzwilliam Darcy should be her Master, to deal with her as he pleased!

‘You’re not seriously considering it?’ her Subconscious asked incredulously. ‘He’s clearly unstable.’

Elizabeth sighed. ‘But leaving aside his constant innuendo and smutty talk, and his controlling personality, and his arrogance, and jealousy, and slightly camp dress sense and
appalling
taste in music, I think he’s basically a nice guy. What do
you
think, Inner Slapper?’

At that moment, her Inner Slapper burst out of her metaphorical closet wearing a peephole basque and crotchless knickers. ‘Ta-da!’ she trilled. ‘Now, which way do I go for the
seeing-to?’

Elizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and meditations which had at length closed her eyes. It was impossible to think of anything else but Mr Darcy’s kinky
proposal, and she resolved, soon after breakfast, to read the contract in more detail. Taking the parchment out of a drawer, in which she had concealed it the evening before, she unrolled it fully
and laid it upon her bureau.

She read with an eagerness which hardly left her power of comprehension. Indeed, many of the terms in the document were beyond her understanding: