Fifty Shades of Mr Darcy: A Parody (14 page)

Mr Darcy glowered. For a few moments he was quiet, surveying her with eyes that shone like shiny things. Elizabeth sensed that the author was running out of ways to describe his eyes.
‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘Chocolate will be permitted.’

Elizabeth smiled. It was a small victory, she knew, but what was a life of sexual slavery without chocolate?

‘Item 4: Exercise. The Submissive shall not jog, run, play contact sports, swim, ride or undertake any other activity that might put her at risk of injury. She may, however, indulge in
yoga or gentle aerobics, provided she wears only a tiny Lycra thong and the Dominant is allowed to watch.’

‘Are country walks permitted?’ asked Elizabeth, thinking how much she would miss her daily outings were they to be outlawed.

‘I have told you, Miss Bennet, I do not want you wandering about on your own. You might trip over a tussock.’

‘Perhaps if Taylor were to accompany me?’

Mr Darcy’s eyes narrowed as he considered the request. ‘I cannot consent to this,’ he said finally. ‘The countryside surrounding Pemberley is hilly, and I will permit
perambulation only where the gradient of the land is 1:1. Shall we continue?’

‘Item 5: Domestic duties. The Submissive shall be responsible for the washing, ironing and dusting, and shall clean the bathroom twice a week. If the Dominant happens to drop his socks and
pants on the floor, the Submissive shall pick them up and put them in the laundry basket. If the Dominant on occasion leaves the toilet seat up, the Submissive shall put it down …’

‘Hang on a minute, there’s something really dodgy about this,’ muttered Elizabeth’s Subconscious.

‘…The Submissive has the right to ask the Dominant to put out the bins once a week, and to mend any wonky shelves that may require re-aligning. Although whether or not he complies
is the Dominant’s prerogative.’

Just then, Mr Darcy was interrupted by the arrival of another serving maid, bringing the first course. She set down a dish of braised ox tongue on the table, and Mr Darcy prodded it gently with
his fork. ‘I hope you enjoy tongue, Miss Bennet,’ he said teasingly.

Elizabeth sighed and raised her eyebrows. ‘Are you making an oblique reference to cunnilingus, Mr Darcy?’

Mr Darcy gave a start. For a moment he struggled to speak, and could only stare at her in confusion. ‘We both know that’s not how this works,’ he spluttered at last.
‘
I
make the innuendos, and you just blush.’

‘Oh. Forgive me, I don’t know what came over me,’ said Elizabeth apologetically. A blush crept prettily across her flawless cheeks. ‘No, Mr Darcy,’ she said in a
shocked whisper. ‘I am unused to tongue.’

‘You will have to develop a taste for it if you are to reside at Pemberley with me,’ Mr Darcy said lasciviously, his grey eyes raking her body.

To reside with him at Pemberley! Elizabeth’s heart beat a little faster.

Mr Darcy poured gravy over his tongue and sprinkled it liberally with pepper.

‘You have barely touched your food, Elizabeth,’ he said curtly. ‘You must eat. You will need the same calorific intake as an Olympic rower if you are to keep up with my
intensive boffing regime. It will be the equivalent of competing in the Oxford-Cambridge boat race every single day.’

Elizabeth fanned herself with her napkin. ‘Will it truly be that arduous, Mr Darcy?’

‘Oh, indeed it will, Miss Bennet,’ Mr Darcy said in a low voice, his grey eyes like molten steel. ‘When I have it off, I have it off
hard
.’

Elizabeth winced. Mr Darcy took another mouthful of tongue.

‘Now that we are in agreement on the basic rules, what do you say? Will you come to Pemberley with me, and be my sex slave?’

Elizabeth, deep in thought, bit her nails. Mr Darcy gave a growl of desire.

‘Say yes, Elizabeth.’

She gazed into his smoky-grey eyes, which were sizzling now, like sausages on a griddle. ‘Yes,’ she breathed.

‘Then let’s not wait Elizabeth,’ he murmured back. ‘Right now all I can think of is ripping off your dress and thwacking you until you are black and blue.’

Elizabeth’s nerves began to tingle. His voice was irresistible, and rivulets of desire cascaded over her whole body.

‘I want you, Elizabeth. Here. Now.’

Elizabeth glanced anxiously at the two servants who were hovering by the door.

‘And I know that you want me too.’

She frowned. His arrogance knew no bounds!

‘How can you be so certain?’ she enquired.

‘I know because your body gives you away,’ Mr Darcy said confidently. ‘You are flushed, your breathing has changed, and you have just stripped off and are lying naked on the
table with only a few frosted grapes covering your modesty.’

Elizabeth glanced down.
Holy heck, he was right!
She hadn’t even realized that she’d been disrobing. Why did he have such a powerful effect upon her?

‘Taylor!’ At Mr Darcy’s command, Taylor’s stubbled face appeared from beneath the tablecloth.

‘Be so good as to preserve Miss Bennet’s modesty.’ Averting his eyes, Taylor laid his cloak gently across Elizabeth’s body.

‘I have taken the liberty of booking a room,’ Mr Darcy said. ‘Taylor will carry you up there.’

‘Are you coming too?’ Elizabeth enquired, as Taylor scooped her into his lower-class arms. The wine she had drunk was making her head swim, but also making her bold.

‘I have never slept in the same room as a woman, Elizabeth,’ Mr Darcy said darkly, and for a moment his beautiful face took on a mournful expression.

‘Then perhaps you will make an exception tonight?’

‘I cannot sleep beside you,’ he said sadly. ‘But I will come up later for a grope.’

A grope!
Her insides turned to liquid at his words.

Carefully, Taylor carried Elizabeth through a small door in the corner of the room which led to a narrow staircase. Thank heavens she did not have to go through the public bar, Elizabeth thought
gratefully, and be exposed to the ogles of the lower classes. The stairs wound up to a tiny attic room, sparsely decorated but for a bed and a washstand.

‘Thank you, Taylor,’ Elizabeth said as the burly manservant set her down gently upon the floorboards. Taylor nodded briefly and turned to go, then seemed to hesitate.

‘Just one thing, Miss,’ he said hurriedly, thrusting something into her hands. ‘You might need this.’

He had vanished before Elizabeth had had a chance to read the label on the tiny tube he had given her. ‘Hmm, KY Jelly,’ she said aloud. ‘Sounds delicious. Maybe it’s for
toast?’ She rubbed a little on her lips and immediately pulled a face. She was sorry to scorn Taylor’s gift, but it was nowhere near as good as Cragg’s marmalade.

Flinging the jelly onto the washstand, Elizabeth threw herself upon the bed and wrapped the coverlet about herself. Mr Darcy would be here soon; she had to stay awake. Yet the two sips of wine
she had partaken of, and her fraught nerves, meant that sleep was soon upon her. At one point, she was vaguely aware of Mr Darcy slipping naked into her bed – or did she dream it all? He
reached out a hand, cupped her right breast and squeezed it gently.

‘Honk! Honk!’ he whispered.

If ever a man needed saving from himself, Elizabeth thought through the fog of sleep, it was Fitzwiliam Darcy.

It seemed to Elizabeth that she had barely closed her eyes at all when the sun began creeping in at the window, like a burglar with nice warm hands. Sighing, she nestled deeper in the bedsheets,
enjoying the feel of cotton against her naked body. Today she was leaving Hertfordshire. Could she really give up her life at Longbourn, her turns about the parlour and her needlepoint, her
pianoforte and her plans for replanting the herb garden, for the life of a sexual submissive?

The window was ajar, and Elizabeth could hear voices in the yard below. Above the usual chatter of serving maids and stablehands, she recognized Taylor’s gruff tones, and Mr Darcy’s
deep, sexy ones. Her curiosity roused, she threw off the bedcovers and pulled back the curtain.
Holy inflatable rubber sphere!
There, in the inn forecourt, was a magnificent sight –
Charlie Tango, standing proud and ready, swollen to full size, waiting for her. She had never seen anything so breathtakingly enormous. Mr Darcy, clad in an open-necked white shirt and tight grey
flannel riding breeches, did not look up, so engrossed was he in humping sandbags over the rim of Charlie Tango’s basket.

Elizabeth stood for a moment, transfixed by the scene below. By now, dawn was sending out fingers of light, which gently tickled the distant hills and excitedly probed the furrowed fields.
Sunlight sprinkled down on Mr Darcy’s lithe, athletic form like golden showers, causing his copper highlights to glow bright ginger. Elizabeth drank in the sight of him. Once again, she felt
the familiar tug of desire for this sexy, complicated billionaire landowner.

Hurriedly, she dressed in the flimsy gown she had been wearing the night before. At the very moment she was about the quit the room, she happened to spy a pair of men’s longjohns draped
over a chair beside her bed. So it was no dream – Mr Darcy had been in her room after all.

Elizabeth smiled to herself. Dare she? Hurriedly, she slipped the longjohns on over her bestockinged legs. Mr Darcy would never guess she was wearing his undergarments! Although he might suspect
something amiss if she had to keep on clawing at her nether regions, she thought to herself as she scratched vigorously at her ladyparts; the worsted really was uncomfortably itchy.

Still rubbing most indecorously, Elizabeth ran from her room and down the staircase, through the bar and out into the yard. Despite her reservations about leaving Hertfordshire, she could feel
only giddy excitement when looking at Charlie Tango close up. Everything about the balloon was impressive, from its yellow and red striped canopy, to the capacious wicker basket beneath.

Mr Darcy’s face was impassive. ‘Good morning, Miss Bennet,’ he said coolly. ‘We will be departing shortly. If you search in my breeches pocket, you will find a buttered
scone that I have prepared for your breakfast.’

‘I am not hu…’ Elizabeth began, but the look on Mr Darcy’s face warned her not to deny his request. He was, after all, her Master now.

‘Eat, Elizabeth,’ he entreated. ‘Do this one thing for me.’ His grey eyes looked suddenly sad, like two koalas whose eucalyptus grove had been cut down by property
developers.

Elizabeth was moved. ‘Very well. I shall partake of breakfast this once, if it pleases you,’ she declared. Stepping forward, she slipped her hand into Mr Darcy’s front pocket
– no mean feat, for his breeches were exceptionally close fitting. Several minutes of searching produced no results, and Elizabeth withdrew her hand with a puzzled look upon her face.

‘Try the other pocket,’ Mr Darcy suggested.

Elizabeth’s fingers dug deep, probing into every crevice, but once again her search proved fruitless. Mr Darcy appeared agitated; his eyes had taken on a wild look, and his breathing was
becoming more rapid. Losing a scone was apparently causing him a great deal of distress.

‘It is not there!’ Elizabeth said, exasperated by her quest for a breakfast she did not even want.

‘Keep looking!’ Mr Darcy gasped. ‘I know it’s there somewhere!’

At once, Elizabeth realized Mr Darcy’s true motivation. ‘There is no scone, is there, Mr Darcy?’ she accused him, withdrawing her hand from his pocket at once. ‘I cannot
believe you are attempting to gain sexual pleasure at my expense, in my innocent search for a buttered scone.’

Mr Darcy’s eyes locked on to hers, and what she saw there almost made Elizabeth swoon. ‘Can you blame me, Miss Bennet?’ he said huskily. ‘I’ve told you, I find it
hard to control myself with you.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Forgive me, I have a dark, dark heart.’

These were not the words of Fitzwilliam Darcy the sex-pervert billionaire, Elizabeth realized; this was Fitzwilliam Darcy the damaged schoolboy speaking. If only he would display his vulnerable
parts to me more often, Elizabeth thought ruefully. She would give anything to see them.

Suddenly, Mr Darcy’s mood seemed to switch, and his manner became formal once again.

‘Let us get you into the basket, Miss Bennet,’ he said, leaning down and lifting up Elizabeth in his hunky arms. He. Was. So. Strong. She was as helpless as a rag doll, his to do
with as he pleased. To play dolly tea parties, or, more likely, to boff senseless. The power was in his hands.

Like he was fondling a particularly fine piece of bone china, Mr Darcy gently set her down inside the basket, all the while never taking his sexy eyes off hers. He picked up his own tailcoat and
wrapped it tightly about her shoulders.

‘We need to strap you in, Miss Bennet,’ he murmured. ‘We all know how accident-prone you are.’ There were myriad buckles and fastenings attached to the basket’s
sides, and Mr Darcy set about pinioning Elizabeth to a bench seat. His breathing became faster as he snapped and tightened each leather strap, and Elizabeth feared he would excite his sensibilities
once more, and she would have another scone situation on her hands. But finally, after tying strands of her hair to the balloon cables, Mr Darcy seemed satisfied, and stepped back to admire his
handiwork.