Fifty Shades of Mr Darcy: A Parody (18 page)

‘Oh baby, let me feel how wet you are!’ Mr Darcy murmured, running his hand through Elizabeth’s soaking mane. ‘Mmm, so wet, just for me …’

Elizabeth gave another moan. There was water up her nose and in her ears, but all she could feel was Mr Darcy’s probing fingers and the heat of those passionate eyes.

Mr Darcy’s hands strayed further down, down to Elizabeth’s aching breasts. Gently, sensuously, he rubbed jam and cake crumbs all over her skin.

‘Taste!’ he ordered, holding one of his long index fingers in front of her lips. Duly, she opened her mouth and sucked.

‘Is that good, Elizabeth?’

‘Mmmm …’ she murmured appreciatively. She loved sponge fingers.

Abruptly, Mr Darcy rose and stepped back. She could hear his breathing becoming more ragged as he reached down into his basket and pulled out an enormous, gnarled parsnip.

‘This is what naughty girls get,’ he rasped, holding the parsnip reverently in both hands.

With one swift movement, he tore the ribbons binding Elizabeth’s feet. Instinctively, she raised her legs up, out of harm’s way.

‘A nice try, Miss Bennet,’ Mr Darcy murmured. ‘But there is to be no escaping your punishment.’

His mouth set into a hard line, and his eyes darkened. Raising his arm, he brought the vegetable down firmly, painfully, on Elizabeth’s exposed behind.

‘Oww!’ she gasped. She had never been beaten with a vegetable before, and it was surprisingly painful.

Again and again, Mr Darcy thwacked his parsnip against Elizabeth’s behind, again and again, up and down. It seemed he would never stop. Faster and faster it rose and fell;
Elizabeth’s flesh felt hot and raw.

‘Come on, Elizabeth, let go!’ Mr Darcy groaned, his parsnip vibrating with each urgent stroke, his eyes closed in ecstasy. With every effort of strength, Elizabeth wriggled free from
the ribbons that bound her hands. This time, she
would
touch him, she determined. She would show him exactly what a loving embrace felt like. Her hands travelled down, further down, until
they reached Mr Darcy’s breeches. Closing about his taut buttocks, she pulled his body firmly towards hers.

‘Oh, Elizabeth … Mind my plums!’ Mr Darcy cried out. There was a horrible squelching noise, and Elizabeth felt juice trickling between her fingers.

‘You’ve squashed my plums!’ Mr Darcy cried, disbelief etched upon his handsome features. ‘My special kinky-sex breeches are totally ruined now!’

Mortified, Elizabeth saw that two overripe plums, which Mr Darcy had been keeping in reserve in his back pockets, had been quite flattened by her eager hands.

Mr Darcy was angry now, truly angry. ‘I told you, Elizabeth, never to touch me! Can you not follow that one simple rule?’

‘I am so sorry,’ she said meekly. ‘I am sure I can get the stains out of your breeches if you just allow me to try.’

Mr Darcy scowled. ‘Never mind my damn breeches. Jones will take care of them. The point is, why are you so wilful? Why can you not simply obey me, like a true submissive would?’

Elizabeth looked down. ‘I … I am beginning to doubt that I have what it takes to be a submissive,’ she said, not daring to look up into his blazing grey eyes. ‘I am not
sure I enjoy being pelted with vegetables, or tied up, or whacked with newspapers. I want other things.’

‘Other things?’ Mr Darcy’s eyes widened in horror and alarm. ‘Do you mean icky, yucky stuff, like holding hands?’

‘And maybe kissing sometimes. And just hugging, without you attempting to feel me up at the same time.’

‘But this is the way I am, Elizabeth. I am not sure I can do those things. My time at Beaton …’ His voice trailed off, and he looked so young, so damaged, that Elizabeth felt
her heart flood with tenderness. ‘I was never kissed, never hugged. I was flogged daily, and learnt to love it, as I’m sure you will too if you give it a chance.’

Elizabeth shook her head. She was unsure what to think. Was she capable of saving this sexy aristo with the smouldering grey eyes and fucked-up personality? Or was he just an irredeemable perv,
beyond anyone’s reach?

‘Please just tell me one thing,’ she said, wiping tomato juice off her breasts. ‘What is it with you and food?’

Mr Darcy sat on the edge of the bed, seemingly oblivious now to the plum juice that dripped from his breeches. ‘You’ve probably wondered why there are no portraits of me as a youth
at Pemberley,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s because, when I was a child, I was a great big fatso.’

Elizabeth was shocked. Mr Darcy – obese? But he was
so freakin’ hot!
How was it possible?

‘Quite simply, I was greedy, Elizabeth. Just as now I am greedy for female flesh, during my schooldays I was greedy for cream cakes and steamed puddings. I wobbled when I walked. The other
boys at Beaton called me “Fatzwilliam”.’

‘Then how …?’ Elizabeth was thinking about Mr Darcy’s washboard abs and taut buttocks.

‘Lady Catherine took me in hand. She made the school put me on a strict diet, and I worked out,’ he explained. ‘So now, I enjoy my food vicariously. Do you
understand?’

‘I think so.’

‘When I see you with a bacon sandwich or a hotdog, it brings me pleasure. Seeing you eat is almost as good as eating myself.’

Elizabeth could have wept. Poor Mr Darcy. Lost, fat little boy, forced to look on in the dinner hall as the other boys tucked into capons and roast mutton and rice pudding, while he partook of
thin gruel. And going to bed hungry, always hungry …

‘When did you last see your doctor, Elizabeth?’ Mr Darcy enquired later that morning, when Elizabeth had cleaned herself up. It had taken a good while as Mr Darcy
had given strict new instructions that she was to be issued with only two tablespoons of washing water per day.

‘Oh, many months ago,’ she replied. ‘I am blessed with robust good health.’

‘Then I insist upon you seeing my physician, Dr Knowe.’

‘How so? I am not feeling at all unwell. Quite the opposite, in fact.’ Elizabeth’s lips quirked up into a smile.
Holy hell, now she was doing it too!

Mr Darcy’s lips quirked up right back at her in amusement. ‘Oh, Lizzy – my beautiful, sweet girl – how is it that you know so little of your own body? Dr Knowe is a
specialist in the inner workings of women. We must take the necessary precautions to ensure that our unions do not have any unwanted results.’

‘You are talking of … a child?’ Elizabeth was deeply shocked. Carried away by Mr Darcy’s lusts and her own desires, she had not stopped to think of such a terrible
consequence.

‘Granted, it’s unlikely,’ her Gaydar cut in. ‘He hasn’t even penetrated you yet.’

‘Well, yes, pregnancy is one consideration,’ Mr Darcy replied, ‘but mostly I want to make sure I don’t give you the clap. As you know, I have frequented many bawdy houses
in my time, and on one occasion, after a visit to Dirty Delilah, I did have this nasty-looking rash …’

‘Pray, do not speak of it,’ said Elizabeth curtly. She could not bear to think of Mr Darcy in the arms of any woman other than herself, let alone a fifty-year-old lady of the night
with a clichéd name and poor personal hygiene.

‘It is a matter that we must address,’ Mr Darcy said gently, taking her hand in his and looking deep into her eyes – searching, probing, like a speculum opening up a pathway to
her soul. ‘Dr Knowe will be here at noon. Please be ready for him.’

Elizabeth dropped her eyes.
Damn, she was even more clumsy than usual when she was flustered.
She hastily picked them up.

‘I will do it for you, Fitzwilliam,’ she said quietly, ‘although I do not wish my most intimate parts to be seen by any man other than yourself.’

‘Do not worry, Dr Knowe is an elderly man, and his sight is not what it was,’ Mr Darcy explained. ‘You will find him to be most tactful and discreet.’

Noon arrived, and Dr Knowe was duly greeted by Mr Darcy. He was indeed a man in the latter stages of life – about three score years and ten, Elizabeth guessed – and walked with a
stoop. His manner was sprightly, however, and his wit lively, and he and Mr Darcy exchanged many pleasantries while Elizabeth waited patiently to be introduced.

‘How’s the old John Thomas?’ asked Dr Knowe, swinging his medical bag in the direction of Mr Darcy’s breeches and accidentally whacking him in the goolies. Mr Darcy
doubled up and gasped for breath.

‘Speak up, Darcy,’ Dr Knowe entreated. ‘I am old, as you well know, and my hearing is not as acute as it was in my youth.’

‘It is in fine form, Doctor,’ Mr Darcy panted, ‘but it is to this young lady, Miss Bennet, that I wish you to minister on this occasion, not myself.’

Dr Knowe whirled about hither and thither and finally caught sight of Elizabeth.

‘Good heavens, Madam, I thought you were the grandfather clock!’ he exclaimed. ‘A young lady, eh?’ he continued. ‘Then in that case, we must find somewhere more
private for our little examination.’ He opened the door of a nearby cabinet. ‘If you will just step this way, Miss Bennet.’

‘Hmmm, I’m getting a bad feeling about this,’ Elizabeth’s Subconscious interjected.

‘Forgive me, Doctor, but that is an armoire,’ Mr Darcy pointed out.

‘Good heavens, Darcy, you are right!’

‘Perhaps,’ Mr Darcy suggested, ‘I might show you to Elizabeth’s bedchamber? No one will disturb you there. Apart from Taylor, who is stationed in Miss Bennet’s
laundry basket.’

Elizabeth gasped. ‘Taylor has been
spying
on me? Why, pray, have you asked him to do such a thing?’

Mr Darcy took Elizabeth’s face in his hands, tenderly. ‘To keep you safe,’ he murmured. ‘You might trip over a discarded ribbon. Or be knocked over by a pillow feather. I
couldn’t bear that to happen to you, Lizzy. You. Are. So. Precious. To. Me.’

‘Are. We. Ready. To. Proceed?’ asked Dr Knowe, who clearly had little time for such displays of affection.

Mr Darcy released Elizabeth and stepped back. ‘Please, take good care of her, Doctor,’ he entreated. His eyes were smouldering like barbecue coals. ‘She belongs to
me.’

‘You can be assured that I will do my utmost in that regard. By the way, Darcy, when I’ve finished, do you want me to give you a little something for that eye infection?’

‘No, thank you, Doctor. I like my eyes to smoulder. It makes me look sexy.’

The Elizabeth who emerged after an hour’s probing, prodding and poking looked even more pale and wide-eyed than usual. While Doctor Knowe was packing away his instruments
and conversing with Mr Darcy, she lay on a chaise longue in the parlour and tried to recover her previous good spirits. Entering into a kinky-sex pact seemingly entailed a wide and constantly
changing range of humiliations and discomforts, chief among them the good Doctor ‘endeavouring to locate her womb’ in
completely
the wrong alleyway. She winced at the memory.

Suddenly, she found herself longing to be back at Longbourn. She wondered what Jane was doing at that very moment – picking rosemary in the garden, perhaps? Or darning her best gown? Kitty
would be daydreaming, Mary would be at her pianoforte, and Lydia and Mama, no doubt, would be comparing tongue piercings. At the thought of home, Elizabeth’s eyes filled with hot tears. What
was she doing here, as Fitzwilliam Darcy’s sex slave? Discontentedly, she turned over onto her stomach and buried her head in a plump, pale pink cushion.

‘Why, Miss Bennet, that is quite an arresting sight!’ Mr Darcy’s voice came as if out of nowhere, his husky tones heavy with desire and anticipation.

Elizabeth lifted her head. Mr Darcy was standing over her, his grey eyes dancing with amusement. She frowned. ‘What, pray, is an arresting sight?’

Mr Darcy merely smirked. Elizabeth followed his gaze down to the cushion beneath her head and realized, with a frisson of embarrassment, that it was shaped exactly like a giant pair of
buttocks.

Hastily, she sat up. Why must everything at Pemberley be lewd, and wanton? Why could Mr Darcy not simply have cushion-shaped cushions, like every other gentleman?

‘Oh, Elizabeth,’ Mr Darcy murmured. ‘Whatever are we to do? You have inflamed my desires all over again.’ He reached down and caressed her cheek. ‘You make me want
to put on a CD of Gregorian chants and run a furry glove all over you.’