Fifty Shades of Mr Darcy: A Parody (9 page)

‘No, this will not do!’ exclaimed Elizabeth, vexed beyond all measure. ‘Two books colliding is enough! It is too, too confusing. I beg you, Charlotte, do not mention Mellors
again.’

Charlotte was taken aback by the vigour of Elizabeth’s protestations. ‘You are tired from your journey, perhaps?’ she suggested. ‘Come, let me show you to your room, and
then perhaps you will tell me your impressions of Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy. Lord knows we hear of little else from Lady Catherine.’

When Elizabeth had rested awhile, Mr Collins invited her to take a stroll in the gardens. They were large and well laid out, and more than once she was required to stop and
admire his peonies. He spoke at length of the affability of the Hunsford populace, the pleasing aspects of the surrounding countryside, and especially the many estimable qualities of his neighbour,
Lady Catherine de Burgh of Rosings Park.

‘You will have the honour of meeting Lady Catherine tomorrow night,’ Mr Collins informed her, ‘when we are all invited to dine at Rosings.’

‘Lady Catherine was a great friend of Fitzwilliam Darcy’s mother, was she not?’

‘That is true, Miss Bennet,’ Mr Collins replied, clearly delighted in her interest, feigned or otherwise. ‘They were both beauty therapists originally, I believe. Lady
Catherine owns a chain of beauty spas, which have brought her great wealth. And of course, she married exceedingly well.’

‘Ah yes,’ mused Elizabeth, ‘to international MOR star Chris de Burgh. If only we could all be so fortunate.’

In truth, she had little desire to meet Lady Catherine. After all, it was under her influence that Fitzwilliam Darcy had grown into the smirking sex pervert he was today. And yet her curiosity
was roused. Lady Catherine was by all accounts a powerful woman, and a handsome one, and Elizabeth had many unanswered questions. Chief among them, which of them
did
have the bigger
bubbies?

Mr Collins could talk of little else all day but their forthcoming visit to Rosings Park that evening. When the time arrived for Charlotte and Elizabeth to attend to their toilette, he came to
their rooms several times, ostensibly to advise them not to keep Lady Catherine waiting, but in actuality to try to catch a glimpse of Elizabeth’s undergarments.

‘I beg you to excuse my husband’s sex-pestery,’ Charlotte said apologetically when Mr Collins had finally gone downstairs to await the carriage. ‘I’m afraid the
prospect of an evening in Lady Catherine’s company invariably has a stimulating effect upon his natural urges.’

‘In that respect he is not alone,’ replied Elizabeth, thinking of Mr Darcy’s unwillingness to defy his godmother. ‘She appears to exert a powerful hold over
men.’

Charlotte nodded. ‘It’s true, she is a beauty. You will see for yourself soon enough. But she is also a
total bitch
.’

‘Really?’

‘Try not to anger her; she has a wicked temper. I said something she didn’t like last time we were there, and she nearly twisted my nipples off.’

Presently the carriage arrived and the party set out from the Parsonage, up the long, winding driveway that cut through Rosings Park and led to the house itself. It was a grand, imposing
building of the old style, with some windows, some walls and a door blah di blah. Ascending the steps, they followed the servants into the lobby, and from thence to the room where Lady Catherine
was waiting for them.

Elizabeth’s heart was in her mouth. She swallowed, hard, and it slipped back down. It was the last thing she needed, she thought anxiously, on the back of her kidney/bladder problem, which
still hadn’t quite righted itself.

Standing in the centre of the room, one spike-heeled boot pressing down on an unfortunate footman’s head, was a tall, shapely woman in a full leather gimp suit, brandishing a long leather
whip. She turned to glare at the party. ‘Did I say you could come in?’ she snarled.

Mr Collins cringed. ‘N… no, no, your ladyship,’ he stammered. ‘Please accept our humble apologies. Should we, um, go back out again?’

Lady Catherine took her boot off her servant’s head. ‘You may go now, Saunders,’ she said coldly. ‘Let me not catch you whistling again, or it’s the thumbscrews for
you.’ The servant scrabbled to his feet and backed hurriedly out of the room, muttering apologies all the way.

Lady Catherine turned her attention to the newcomers. ‘Well, do not just stand there! Come forward!’ she demanded. As the party tentatively advanced, she pulled off her gimp mask,
and a cascade of pale-blonde hair tumbled down past her shoulders. She was a magnificent-looking woman, despite her advanced years, and her bubbies, Elizabeth noted sourly, were indeed far larger
than her own.

‘You!’ Lady Catherine exclaimed, pointing the whip directly at Elizabeth. ‘What is your name?’

Elizabeth gave a brief curtsey. ‘Elizabeth Bennet, your ladyship.’

‘And where do you reside?’

‘At Longbourn, in Hertfordshire.’

Lady Catherine wrinkled her exquisite nose. ‘Hmmm, you are sorely in need of a makeover. Let me see…’ She stepped forward and grasped Elizabeth’s chin, hard, turning it
this way and that with her leather-clad hand. ‘Eyebrow threading. Upper-lip bleach. And for pity’s sake, do something about those open pores.’

Abruptly, she let go, leaving Elizabeth feeling bruised and humiliated, and turned to Mr Collins.

‘And what time, pray, do you call this? You are
three and a half minutes late
.’

Mr Collins blanched. ‘Forgive us, Lady Catherine, the ladies and their toilette…’

‘Be silent!’ commanded Lady Catherine. ‘You are a very naughty boy! What are you?’

‘A very naughty boy?’ Mr Collins said in a small voice, visibly cringing.

‘That’s right. And what do I do to very naughty boys?’

‘Punish them?’ squeaked Mr Collins.

‘That is correct. Go over to my armoire, Mr Collins, and select from within it the largest butt plug you can find. You shall sit upon it while we dine, until I am satisfied you have learnt
your lesson.’

Elizabeth gasped. Charlotte lowered her eyes in mortification. But Mr Collins’s expression, perversely, was bright-eyed, even eager.

‘Thank you, Lady Catherine, it is an honour,’ he said, bowing low.

‘Come, ladies, we shall take our repast,’ announced Lady Catherine. ‘Join us, Mr Collins, when you have arranged yourself.’

She strode off towards a door in the corner of the room, her gimp suit creaking and her spike heels clicking on the wooden floorboards.

‘We must follow at once,’ hissed Charlotte, ‘or risk displeasing her.’

‘What a bitch troll she is,’ Elizabeth hissed back. ‘I don’t care whether she does own a string of top beauty salons, I’m going to tell her what I think of
her.’

‘Pray don’t, Lizzy,’ Charlotte begged. ‘We have asked for her permission to hold a music festival, Philstock, on her land, and if she refuses, we will lose a considerable
investment.’

Elizabeth sighed. ‘Then for the sake of our friendship, I must hold my tongue. But it will not be easy.’

‘Where are you, lazy trollops?’ Lady Catherine’s voice boomed from the next room. ‘Bestir yourselves!’

Elizabeth followed Charlotte into the dining room and immediately her jaw dropped in astonishment.
What kinky fuckery was this?
Several chairs were laid out in the centre of the room, and
before each was a servant, kneeling on all fours. Lady Catherine was seated in the grandest chair, and had rested her wine glass upon a buxom serving girl’s buttocks.

‘Mrs Jenkinson!’ Lady Catherine called, and from a side door there emerged a frail-looking maidservant, almost bent double with age, wearing a leather harness and bridle. A
pony’s tail was attached to the back of her gown.

‘Yes, Mistress?’ she enquired, the metal bit grinding audibly against her teeth.

‘Bring the soup!’

Mrs Jenkinson shuffled off, her tail swinging limply behind her.

Holy crap, what was this place?
Elizabeth could only shudder that Fitzwilliam Darcy had fallen into Lady Catherine’s clutches at such a tender age; there was no humiliation, no
degradation that was not on display here. Tentatively, she took a seat in front of a young footman, who was wearing nothing but leather trousers and nipple clamps. Mrs Jenkinson laid a bowl of soup
and a spoon upon the footman’s hairy back.

‘Well, eat up,’ Lady Catherine barked. ‘This will soon go cold.’ She slurped her soup loudly.

‘Do you play, Miss Bennet?’ she suddenly asked. ‘A young lady should most definitely play the pianoforte.’

‘A little,’ Elizabeth replied, ‘although I confess I have not much natural talent.’

‘That is most displeasing!’ Lady Catherine declared, her icy blue eyes narrowing. ‘You shall play for me later, and if I judge your performance to be lacking in skill, I shall
have to chastise you.’

Elizabeth felt her skin prickling.
How dare she?

‘With respect, Lady Catherine, how do you intend to do that?’

‘With ten lashes upon your derriere, of course.’

‘And if I am resistant to the idea of punishment?’

Lady Catherine eyed her appraisingly. ‘You are defiant, Miss Bennet. Perhaps, in your case, ten lashes will not suffice. Perhaps I shall have to leash you to my pony trap beside Jenkinson,
and have you pull me about the grounds.’

‘Go fu…’ Elizabeth began, but at that very moment, there emerged in the doorway a very uncomfortable-looking Mr Collins.

‘I do so hope I have not kept you all waiting,’ he said obsequiously, shuffling gingerly across the room like a man three times his age. He lowered himself into a seat, wincing.
Jenkinson laid out a bowl of soup on the servant in front of him.

‘None for me, please.’

‘You are full, Mr Collins?’ Lady Catherine asked, her cold eyes glinting with malice.

‘Painfully so, Lady Catherine.’

‘I insist that you partake of the next course. It is roast goose,’ she commanded. ‘Although on this occasion, given the circumstances, I shall allow you to forgo the
stuffing.’

The first fortnight of Elizabeth’s visit soon passed away. She and the Collinses dined four more times at Rosings, each occasion being more deplorable than the last. Lady
Catherine appeared in various guises: sometimes in her gimp suit, sometimes in a red leather corset, and, on the fourth evening, sporting an eyewateringly huge strap-on dildo – a sight that
caused Mr Collins almost to fall into a faint. At that particular dinner, Lady Catherine announced that they were soon to be graced with a visit from her godson, Mr Darcy, a prospect that gave her
great joy. Mr Darcy, she pointed out, could never do enough to please her.

Hearing the news, Elizabeth was overwhelmed by conflicting emotions. The prospect of being in such close proximity to Fitzwilliam Darcy alarmed her. And yet undeniably, he thrilled her in a way
that her usual pleasures such as tinkling her harpsichord could never do. Would he launch another assault on her reticule? Her Inner Slapper certainly hoped that he would.

Mr Darcy’s arrival at Rosings was quickly noted by Mr Collins, who had witnessed the gentleman’s carriage approaching Rosings Park when he was in the garden watering his peonies.
That very afternoon, Mr Darcy arrived at Hunsford to pay his respects. A sharp rap on the door announced his arrival, and shortly afterwards he was shown into the parlour, where Charlotte and
Elizabeth were at their needlepoint.