Darcy Dominates
By Tilda Templeton
Also by Tilda Templeton:
My Dear Jane: An Erotic Short Story Collection Based on the Works of Jane Austen http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00Y5CLSJG
Copyright © 2015 by Tilda Templeton
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Darcy Dominates
The letter came on a Friday, delivered as Elizabeth Bennett-nee-Darcy sat to tea with her neighbor and new, dear friend, M. Allory Ortberg. A footman brought it in, delicately tucking it into Mrs. Darcy’s palm. Miss Ortberg’s eyebrow raised in a single, elegant movement. Mrs. Darcy was greatly fond of Miss Ortberg, but there were moments the lady unsettled her, too. She was a lady of means and had noted at least once that she had no interest in a husband; her collies and charities were quite enough work, already, without having to raise a man. She was also keenly fashionable and Mrs. Darcy didn’t know how the lady kept up, what with all the time they spent in the country, except to think that she had her outfits on automatic order from the finest atelier in London.
Miss Ortberg lifted her tea cup with a pink-gloved hand and peered at Mrs. Darcy over the red poppy decorated rim. “You seem flustered, my dear.”
Mrs. Darcy hadn’t realized her expression or demeanor had changed, but Miss Ortberg had a way of sensing even the shifting of the breeze on a still day.
“The letter is from my sister, Lydia. It’s the third one in a fortnight and I’m afraid I don’t quite know how to reply to her. She’d like to come for a visit.”
“Why is it odd to welcome your own sister for a visit?” Miss Ortberg said. She raised a little, frosted cake to her lips. “You’ve always spoken so affectionately about your family.”
“I am very affectionate towards them, and Lydia has visited in the past, I’m glad to say.” Mrs. Darcy allowed herself a tiny, private smile, thinking about the book Lydia had left the last time she’d visited and how it had spiced up hers and Darcy’s…intimate relations. “But she writes that her husband aims to come along, this time. You see, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham have a history. Not a happy one, I’m sad to say.”
“How fascinating. Are they still at odds with one another?”
“Oh, yes. And it’s been years.” Elizabeth Darcy bit her lip, deciding whether she wanted to tell Miss Ortberg the details of Mr. Wickham’s transgressions and his history with her husband. Since she wanted to cultivate a more intimate acquaintance with her neighbor, she decided to relate the whole story: how Mr. Darcy had known Wickham his whole life, how Darcy’s father had kindly left a living to Wickham when he died, which Wickham proceeded to squander away, how Wickham cruelly romanced Mr. Darcy’s young sister in the hopes of marrying into the Darcy fortune, and how Wickham tried to gain Elizabeth’s pity before she learned the truth…and before he ran off with Lydia Bennett in a most indiscrete manner. Mr. Darcy had gone after the runaway couple, and it was that service that helped Elizabeth understand how she truly felt about the man who would become her husband.
When Mrs. Darcy finished speaking, Miss Ortberg was duly shocked. “What a lot of scandal,” she exclaimed.
“It did ultimately bring Mr. Darcy and I together, so while I would think I should still be shocked by it all, I’m mostly grateful.”
“Indeed,” Miss Ortberg said.
“The trouble, of course, is that the men still detest one another. I can’t imagine how Mr. Darcy could ever make Mr. Wickham feel comfortable at Pemberley. That would ruin my time with my sister and, to be perfectly honest, I resent the idea that anyone wouldn’t feel as much happiness at Pemberley as I do. Miss Ortberg, how shall I refuse Lydia without seeming unkind?”
The lady carefully set her teacup on her saucer and took one of Elizabeth’s hands in her own. She gazed deep into Mrs. Darcy’s eyes, as though assessing her very mettle. “Mrs. Darcy. I hope you won’t mind if I make a tiny suggestion to you? I’ve had a sort of experience with these matters. My uncle was always at odds with one of his hired men. They bickered. They silenced one another. His hired man was very talented, so my father wouldn’t let him go. It made the whole family crazy. Until one day…”
Mrs. Darcy leaned forward, pressing her stomach against the edge of the table. “Yes? What happened between them?”
Miss Ortberg worked her mouth to the left, and then to the right. She dropped Mrs. Darcy’s hand and leaned back again.
“The specifics of their relationship are of no use to discuss. It’s all rather complicated and childish. But the thing is, dear Elizabeth, men are such funny creatures. They need to dominate everything around them. They dominate their horses and their estates. They fish so they can dominate the rivers. They plant crops so they can dominate the land. Unless you’re a very careful, intelligent woman, as I know you to be, Mrs. Darcy, they will even dominate the creatures they profess to love more than all others: their wives.”
“To be sure, Miss Ortberg. But these two men lead such different lives. I can’t see how the issue of dominance figures in, at all. Mr. Wickham is but a dandelion fluff, blowing on the wind.”
“He is a dreadful weed, do you mean? Going where he isn’t wanted and better off chopped in a platter of greens?”
The two ladies laughed at that, lightening the air and breathing the delicateness of it in as a respite from their stories. Miss Ortberg sighed deeply and sat up again. Her sapphire pin glittered in the fading afternoon light. Her dark hair blended with the shadows.
“What happened to your father and his hired man?” Mrs. Darcy asked, again.
Miss Ortberg spread her palms flat on the table. “It was as I said, my dear. Men must dominate everything. Even one another. My father and his hired man went through . . . a certain process and all future interactions have been filled with harmony. It has been a great relief, I assure you. I don’t know if Mr. Wickham has ever bothered to apologize to Mr. Darcy, but even if he has, it is not enough. Mr. Darcy needs to dominate the man who undermined his beloved sister.”
“I think Darcy shamed Wickham when he went for him after Lydia went missing--.”
“Mrs. Darcy, you are very sweet. Shame is not the same as domination. Here’s what I think you should do. Write to your sister. Tell her she and her husband are welcome at Pemberley.” Miss Ortberg stood. “When they arrive, call for me. I’ll mediate their domination. You’ll need do nothing more than to watch and see how the very air between them is cleared. Think of how delightful it will be to have your family all in good humor with one another.” Miss Ortberg pressed her hand against Mrs. Darcy’s shoulder as she passed her on her way out. “It makes the holidays so much more entertaining.”
Elizabeth Darcy wrote to her sister and then settled back into her daily routine. She didn’t expect to hear from Lydia for several weeks, so her surprise was elevated when Mrs. Wickham’s letter came only four days after she’d sent her own.
How jolly, Dear Lizzie. You see, we are right in the neighborhood and wouldn’t you know, we were going to come by as a surprise either way! But we are monstrous glad you’ve sent your invitation beforehand! It’s thrilling to discover we are wanted and not just tolerated, after all! I’ll have Wickham gather our things and send them ahead. I can’t wait to see the happiness on your face when your favorite sister arrives!
Lydia’s note had the intended effect of making Mrs. Darcy’s cheeks flare with heat. She pressed a hand to one, knowing she shouldn’t feel abashed at Lydia’s insinuations that she didn’t want her sister near, but then logic often had a way of being brushed aside by
the ridiculous emotions of the heart. Mrs. Darcy smiled to herself and folded up the note. Mr. Darcy would be terribly amused by that thought, that logic was preferable to feeling.
“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said to her husband over breakfast the next morning. “I expect Lydia and Wickham will arrive by this afternoon. Their cases came just at dawn.”
Mr. Darcy set his egg spoon to the side and peered at his wife around his newspaper. “Would you mind repeating yourself? You said before that Lydia was coming, but I don’t recall a mention of Wickham coming, as well.” The man could hardly say the name of his foe without choking a little.
“Did I forget to bring that up? How forgetful of me. It’s really not like me to let something with so much history go unattended.” Mrs. Darcy’s eyes sparkled at her husband and it took all his willpower to hold on to his annoyance when, really, he wanted to rip that jacket and dress from her body and rub his hardening prick against her lovely, soft ass.
Mr. Darcy cleared his throat. “He is not welcome in this home.” His words had a sense of finality to them, but Mrs. Darcy had learned, over the years, how to get her own way with her husband.
Elizabeth rose and crossed the room to her husband’s chair. She leaned over him, exposing the swells of her bosom. Her hand dropped to his knee, her fingers tapping a light pattern.
“My darling Mr. Darcy. Wickham is, much to my despair, family now. We must bury the hatchet between the two of you and move forward with grace and dignity. You wouldn’t want our social circles accusing you of pouting, would you?”
“A preposterous idea,” Darcy muttered. “My social standing is impeccable. Mrs. Darcy, I tire of this conversation.” Mr. Darcy dropped all pretense and fixed his hands on his wife’s hips, drawing her down into his lap. His bulge pressed into her backside and he bit back a moan as his wife turned to face him, rubbing her body over his hard need.
Mrs. Darcy knew exactly what her husband desired and what she was going to do about it, which was only enough to get her way and nothing more. He would rant and moan to her about her methods, but she could not be put off her plan. Elizabeth turned again, pretending to be oblivious to the way she drove her husband mad with desire. Indeed, his throbbing manhood pulsed beneath her ass, and even she felt waves of desire course through her blood. Her nipples hardened, but she clamped her teeth on the tender skin inside her mouth to control herself.
“Miss Ortberg says--.”
“Miss Ortberg? What does that meddling lady have to do with this? Lizzie, I do want you to have a large acquaintance, but I must warn you that Miss Ortberg is very modern in her views.”
“Is that so terrible? Should we aim to be backwards in our views? What a shocking idea!”
“That’s not what I meant at all.” The way his wife was fluttering on top of him made it difficult for Mr. Darcy to get his thoughts in line. It was all too much.
“Of course it wasn’t. And so, I must relay just what Miss Ortberg says. She says you must dominate Wickham, that it is the only way to settle the dispute between the two of you. He had challenged your dominion and now you must teach him who is the better man. Once you’ve done so, we can move past this whole dreadful history.”
“Hardly something I need to teach him. The truth is evident. Now, my dear, would you mind moving ever so slightly to your right…just…yes, that spot is…uh…uh…perfect.” Mr. Darcy closed his eyes and reveled in the sensations his wife atop his mass of quivering need created. He lifted his hips slightly, but was shocked when Mrs. Darcy sprung to her feet, a devil’s smile on her face.
“I think Miss Ortberg’s idea is marvelous and I anticipate great things from it. I shall prepare Pemberley for our guests.”
Mr. Darcy growled at his wife, his brain turned into a pit of warm mush and his body screaming his need at her, but Mrs. Darcy didn’t care. She’d gotten her way. Besides, she had a sense that Mr. Darcy could use that pent up aggravation in his domination exercises with Wickham, later. Mrs. Darcy didn’t know the full extent of how useful Darcy’s throbbing need would be. But she was to learn.
Luncheon was ready when Mr. and Mrs. Wickham arrived. The sun had hidden itself behind low-hanging clouds, and Miss Ortberg had situated herself in the parlor, responding promptly to Elizabeth’s scrawled note telling her that Lydia and her husband were about to arrive. It was early for sherry, but that didn’t seem to bother Miss Ortberg, who had a way of making her own rules. She sipped at her cut crystal glass and studied Mr. and Mrs. Wickham as they entered the room. Lydia was rather a mousy thing, though her open smile and lack of cultivation gave her some personality. Wickham, on the other hand, played at aristocracy, putting on an air that felt forced, but at least was more amiable than Lydia’s riotous and unchecked energy. They were introduced and shook hands and eased themselves into chairs and sofas.
They all felt a change in the air when Mr. Darcy entered the room. Miss Ortberg set her sherry on a silver tray and placed her hand over Mrs. Darcy’s to ease her nerves.
“It will be lovely, dear, I promise." Miss Ortberg stood, taking command of the room. All eyes trained on her face, despite the enticing, rounded bosom rising from above her blue silk gown. Mrs. Darcy had noticed that her neighbor simply had that kind of presence in a room. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am so pleased to introduce a novel and psychologically sound method of resolving disputes. I have been apprised of your situation and can make modern recommendations.”
Mr. Darcy raised one eyebrow. He was comfortable with his traditional ways. But Mr. Wickham sat forward, folding his hands between his knees, rapt with attention.
“Mr. Darcy, you must dominate Mr. Wickham,” Miss Ortberg continued.
Darcy poured himself a Scotch. “I think that has been accomplished.”
“I don’t think you quite catch my meaning.”
“Why, then, don’t you make your meaning quite clear and we can get on with our evening.”
Miss Ortberg pursed her lips. “As you wish. Mr. Darcy, Mr. Wickham, shed your trousers.”
Mrs. Darcy and Mrs. Wickham gasped.
“Preposterous!” Mr. Darcy exclaimed.
“Why?” Mr. Wickham said.
“Because Mr. Darcy is going to dominate you. Like the oiled wrestlers of ancient Greece, it can only be accomplished in the most natural, animal form.”
Mr. Wickham stood. “This has a ring of common sense to it.” And he dropped his pants and undergarments to the floor.
Lydia Wickham couldn’t hold back a giggle. “He’s always been an exhibitionist.”
“Wickham. I deplore. Get dressed at once,” Mr. Darcy said.
“I won’t. I feel we must see this through. As brothers-in-law. We owe it to our wives, who are sisters. If we never come to terms with one another, how will they ever be happy?”
Elizabeth and Lydia met each other’s eyes from across the room. It was strange, but they both could see the common sense of what Wickham said.
“Mr. Darcy, please,” said Elizabeth.
Mr. Darcy gnashed his teeth, but obeyed his wife, as a good husband should. The three ladies sat very still, taking in the long, muscular calves, rounded, firm thighs, and rapidly changing cocks of the men. For, while their rods were limp and sad, at first, it took only moments for the hushed admiration in the room to titillate them. Elizabeth saw each member slowly rise as it filled with horniness, like the sun coming up in the east. A stirring began in her lower belly.
“Now, Mr. Darcy. Command Mr. Wickham,” said Miss Ortberg.
“Command him to do what?” Mr. Darcy’s voice was high-pitched. His cheeks pink. His balls hardening in their sack.
“Anything you like.” Miss Ortberg smiled decadently. “Tell him to lick your feet.”
“My feet?”
“I would have said boots, as that’s traditional, but you aren’t wearing any.”
Darcy cleared his throat. “Wickham. Lick my feet.”
“As you command,” Wickham said.
Mrs. Darcy sat on
the very edge the sofa, her body quivering with anticipation. Her cordial glass nearly slipped from her fingers as she watched Wickham cross to the fireplace, where Darcy stood with his arm against the mantle, and slowly lower himself to his knees.
Wickham took notice of the dark hair against Darcy’s legs, of the tense stillness in the air, of the ticking of the clock above him. Miss Ortberg and her whole theory excited him. His wife was right: Wickham loved being on display, loved shocking people with his actions. He didn’t even mind putting his tongue on Darcy’s feet, for her knew the moment he did, the room would fill with delightfully shocked gasps and that would make his skin tingle, his heart rate race, and his mental state soar.
So he licked Darcy’s feet. He lapped them like a cat seeking cream. The ladies did gasp. The air around him did seem to rush like a strong wind. But what he wasn’t expecting, was how much he liked doing the licking. How much being controlled appealed to him. His body began to flame, his balls hardened, the skin puckering like a kiss. He tilted his ass in the air. It had, suddenly, a need to be stroked. Wickham moaned.
“Yes, it must be awful,” Darcy said, misinterpreting Wickham’s sound. Darcy’s voice came out overly harsh, even for him. It made Wickham look up. The prostrate man’s puppy eyes and lolling tongue, plus those tremors that inexplicably rose from his feet to his hard thighs to his groin, made Darcy clutch the mantle. This was all preposterous. And yet…he wanted to command Wickham again. He wanted the man to grovel for a long time. He wanted…he wanted that tongue in more places.
Darcy cleared his throat. “Awful, but you deserve it. Now lick my ankles.”
“As you wish,” Wickham whispered. He bowed his head and drew his tongue in little circles around Darcy’s anklebone. He traced the Achilles Heel in back. He flattened his tongue wide over the front of Darcy’s ankle, loving being the servant to such a master. On his knees, his cock and balls dangled, swaying back and forth. He knew the ladies behind him watched his manhood, mesmerized, because who wouldn’t? And that excited him, even more. Wickham’s stud hardened like that of a horse looking for a mare in heat. Massive, red, throbbing, building to ultimate explosion.
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