Fifty Shades of Mr Darcy: A Parody (2 page)

Glancing in the looking glass, Elizabeth sighed. With her alabaster skin and full lips, she thought herself not so pretty as Jane, whose strawberry-blonde locks attracted so much attention. She
would never draw admiring glances, she decided, with so many faults; her breasts were too pert, her legs too long and shapely, and her vivid blue eyes too large and limpid. And what man would want
her once he knew about her magical vibrating vagina? No, matters of the heart were not for her.

Elizabeth’s needless worries were dispelled at once, however, by the merry nature of the gathering at Netherfield. Mr Bingley himself was the most genial of hosts – a gentleman with
an easy, cheerful manner, a pleasing countenance and blue eyes that shone in mirth. He lost no time in exhorting every lady in the assembly to dance. He launched himself into the Gay Gordons with
aplomb, could not seem to have enough of Lord Percy’s Yardstick, and cried out in delight at The Captain’s Hornpipe. Elizabeth could see at once that Mr Bingley had made a favourable
impression upon Jane; her sister remarked at length upon his muscular body, his cherubic blond curls and the cut of his jib. His jib, in fact, escaped no one’s notice – it was
enormous.

‘Truly, he is a most affable character,’ she remarked. ‘I fancy, though, that he is not the most intelligent of men.’

‘Whatever makes you think that?’ Elizabeth replied.

‘Oh, it is but a supposition. Based on the fact that when I asked him how he was enjoying our shire, he replied that Arseshire was the prettiest of counties, but he had been mistakenly
pronouncing it “Hertfordshire”.’

‘Intelligence matters little, if his general nature is as agreeable as you say,’ Elizabeth replied, watching Mr Bingley punching himself in the face over the punchbowl. Her attention
was soon diverted, however, to Bingley’s friend Mr Darcy, who stood in the corner of the room with his back to the company, busily arranging some dusty tomes on the bookshelf into
alphabetical order. ‘How inconsiderate,’ thought Elizabeth, ‘not to dance when there are so many young ladies left without a partner.’ She could not help noting, however, Mr
Darcy’s athletic physique. He must have stood six feet two or three inches in his Cuban-heeled riding boots; his carriage was upright, his shoulders broad and his buttocks firm and well
sculpted. Elizabeth felt a pull in some dark, secret place inside her belly. It might have been her spleen. Or then again, perhaps it was her G-spot. Having received minimal schooling and being
largely ignorant of female anatomy, she could not be entirely certain. Just as she was musing on her inner organs, Mr Bingley called out to his friend.

‘Hullo there, Darcy! Do come and dance!’

Mr Darcy turned and –
oh my!
– Elizabeth saw his face for the first time. His lips were sensual and full, his ginger hair – no, wait a minute, let’s call it copper
– hung down over grey eyes so alluring they could have been hammered from boulders of solid sex.
He was so freakin’ hot!

‘There are ladies waiting,’ Bingley implored him. ‘Leave the books and come hither.’

Darcy’s sculpted lips curled up into a disdainful smile.

‘Normally I would dance,’ said he. ‘And expertly – just as I do all other things. However, I must
whip
this bookshelf into shape. Some fool has put Lord Byron
before William Blake, do you see?’

‘Oh, that will have been me!’ cried Bingley happily. ‘You know how hoples i am at speling! But come, Darcy, I beg you to desist! Why concern yourself with books when you can
dance with some delightful young ladies? There are many lovely creatures here tonight. What about that pretty young thing over there with the humungous chest?’

Darcy’s lips quirked up into a sneer. ‘You mean Miss Shapen? She is not to my taste.’

‘What of Miss Anthrope?’

‘Too miserable.’

‘Miss Laid?’

‘She sounds promising. Where is she?’

‘I just lost sight of her.’

Darcy gave an exasperated sigh. ‘None here can tempt me. You, my friend, have been dancing with the only true beauty here tonight.’

Mr Bingley beamed with happiness. ‘Jane Bennet? She is most agreeable, is she not? But what about her sister, Elizabeth? Is she not a handsome creature also?’

‘Hmmm …’ Darcy appeared lost in thought. ‘She is tolerable, I suppose,’ he said eventually. ‘But too innocent-looking to tempt me. And her mother is a vulgar
creature.’ He turned his steely gaze in the direction of Mrs Bennet, who was dirty-dancing with a young fusilier. ‘Look at her tattoos. What is that large one upon her shoulder? Is it a
penis?’

Mr Bingley peered. ‘I’m not sure, I think it may be some sort of jellyfish.’

‘In any case, it is badly done.’

Elizabeth, who had overheard every word of their exchange, lost no time in telling her acquaintances with much wit and playfulness how she had been spurned by Mr Bingley’s proud and
disdainful friend. But privately, her spirits were much affronted. There was no denying that she thought Mr Darcy the most handsome billionaire she had ever seen. Gazing upon his lithe frame
propping up the bookshelf, one leg cocked at a rakish angle, the other leg arranged at a cockish angle, she felt a jolt of energy coursing through her body. Elizabeth wondered what it would be like
to take a turn about the rose garden in the company of such a man. Or to sit in the shade of an arbour, reading Wordsworth together. At the very thought of a mutual poetry-reading session, her body
gave another little shiver of excitement.

‘I think he’s dangerous,’ her Subconscious counselled. ‘Keep well away from him.’

‘God, you’re so frigid,’ her Inner Slapper interjected.

‘Does anyone else think he might be gay?’ her Gaydar piped up. ‘I mean, check out the paisley cravat.’

While her inner voices sparred, and Elizabeth berated herself for forgetting her medication, Mrs Bennet came whirling across the room accompanied by four young officers of the militia.
Evidently, she had partaken liberally of the rum punch, and her face glowed like a beacon.

‘These nice young gentlemen have offered to take me outside and show me their manoeuvres!’ she exclaimed. ‘Captain Yates here tells me his musket is half-cocked already, and
with my help it will be fully cocked in no time.’

Elizabeth noticed that Mr Darcy had turned his attention to their party, and was staring at her with those unsettling, penetrating grey eyes of his. She turned crimson with shame. Her
mother’s lack of decorum would once again be the talk of Meryton, no doubt.

‘I will join you boys in just a moment, but I must find a chamber pot first!’ Mrs Bennet exclaimed. ‘I swear I have already piddled in my pantaloons!’ Her gaze landed
upon Mr Darcy. ‘Lor, that must be the Mr Darcy I have heard so much about! Well, I can see that what they say is true – he is
so freakin’ hot
! Is he not hot,
Lizzy?’

Elizabeth placed her finger upon her lips, in an attempt to signal to her mother that their conversation might be overheard.

‘I imagine if Mr Darcy is overly warm, he will see it upon himself to step away from the fireplace,’ she whispered.

‘I was not referring to his temperature, child. I am speaking of his appearance,’ Mrs Bennet trilled, fanning herself with what Elizabeth realized, with horror, was a pair of
bloomers.

‘His breeches are snug-fitting after the London fashion, do you not notice, Lizzy? In fact, when he stands there in the firelight you can clearly see the outline of his –’

‘Shuttlecock?’ Bingley interjected. ‘We are setting up the card tables in the drawing room if you care to make up a party.’ He looked from Elizabeth’s scarlet
countenance to Mr Darcy’s dark, glowering one. ‘Or we can play whist, if you prefer?’

With one last penetrating look at Elizabeth, Fitzwilliam Darcy turned on his Cuban heels and stalked off towards the gaming tables. Elizabeth, mortified and exasperated all at once, turned her
attention back to the dancers, determined to put all thought of Mr Bingley’s arrogant friend out of her head.

Yet, that night, she dreamt of loosening her stays under his steely grey gaze, as if in a daze. While lost in a maze, with her bloomers ablaze.

It had been one of those days.

When Elizabeth and Jane were alone in Jane’s bedchamber the next morning, the latter expressed to her sister how very much she admired Mr Bingley.

‘Oh, Lizzy, although we are not well acquainted, I cannot help but feel a great deal of affection for him already. So what if he is a trifle dim-witted? He is also handsome, agreeable and
good humoured.’

‘He is all of those things, indeed,’ Elizabeth replied. ‘And, I believe, he admires you, too.’

‘I cannot allow myself to think so. After all, he danced with me but twice.’ Jane tossed her strawberry-blonde locks. Elizabeth caught them deftly and threw them back. ‘But he
did try to touch me up on the balcony.’

‘There! That proves it! He returns your affections!’

‘Dear Lizzy, do you think it can be true?’

‘It was plain to all! But sweet sister, be wary. You have met him but once, and his reputation …’

‘There are rumours of impropriety?’

‘Oh, Jane …’ Elizabeth sighed. ‘Carrotslime Bingley told me that in Town, among the ladies of fashion, he is known as “Mr Bang-Me”. But we only have her word
for that. I, for one, am convinced there is little truth in the matter.’

‘And what of you, dear sister? Slighted by Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy! Are you affronted?’

‘Indeed, I am not,’ Elizabeth smiled. ‘If Mr Darcy considers himself above our station, I can understand it. After all, our stepfather has but two thousand pounds a year, and
Mr Darcy is a man of vast wealth, and well known for his charitable works.’

‘Indeed, his educational foundation is spoken of highly,’ agreed Jane. ‘Its aim, I believe, is to introduce corporal punishment into every finishing school for young ladies.
There is much to admire in his philanthropy.’

‘If not his character,’ added Elizabeth. Although, inside her head, her Subconscious and her Inner Slapper were having a bitch-fight in a metaphorical car park.

‘Admit it – there is something about Mr Darcy that attracts you!’ shouted her Inner Slapper, grabbing a handful of her Subconscious’s hair.

‘Oww! Don’t listen to her!’ her Subconscious yelled, forcing her Inner Slapper into a headlock. ‘He’s dangerous. And anally retentive. Did you notice the way he
rearranged the ornaments on the mantelpiece? He did it with a tape measure, for Christ’s sake!’

Elizabeth shook her head, forcing herself out of her reverie.

‘Do not worry,’ she reassured Jane, whose lovely face radiated sisterly concern. ‘I shall soon forget Mr Darcy’s insult. I will endeavour to put him behind me.’

Jane gave a wry smile. ‘Behind you? I fear that is exactly where he would be if Mama has her way.’

Following Mr Bingley’s ball, the ladies of Longbourn fast became better acquainted with those of Netherfield. Miss Jane Bennet’s pleasing manners grew on the
goodwill of Mr Bingley’s sisters, and she was oft invited to spend time in their company.

Looseata and Carrotslime made a great pet of Jane, and together the young ladies passed many an afternoon decrying other people’s dress sense, and waiting for someone to ask them to marry
them. On occasion they would be diverted by some small project, such as knitting balaclavas for the terminally ugly of the parish, and one such scheme led to a letter being delivered to Longbourn
early one morning.

‘May I take the carriage?’ asked Jane.

‘Certainly not,’ replied Mrs Bennet. ‘You must go on horseback, because it seems likely to rain and then you must stay all night. And you can pretend to be saddle-sore, and ask
Mr Bingley to rub your inner thighs.’