PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

“Pride and Prejudice: A Novel of Manners” by Alan Leggitt

The Unedited Edition

by Jane Austen

Volume III

Chapter XIV

Historian’s note:

Surely anyone who has read Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice will never forget the iconic scene where Lady Catherine de Bourgh confronts Elizabeth Bennet, accusing her of intending to marry Mr. Darcy to climb the social ladder. Many consider this scene to be the climax of the class tension expressed throughout the book. Few readers, however, know that this scene was heavily edited before publication. Though seemingly innocent to the contemporary reader, the original text was considered far too explicit at the turn of the nineteenth century. It is this historian’s hope that the reader will find this unedited edition just as climactic and a truer embodiment of Austen’s literary genius.

—Dr. Reginald Farnsworth III, PhD

As soon as I see that little slut, I’m gonna kick her in the snatch! thought Lady Catherine de Bourgh as she gazed out the window of her exquisite carriage. Whenever the Lady of Rosings was vexed, she would draw a deep breath and try to take in the scenery, but as she looked upon the countryside of Hertfordshire, she could not help but think, I’d sooner roll in all the horse shit in Rosings than visit this cum dumpster again.

When at last her long journey came to an end, her dutiful driver helped her out. When she first saw the Bennet residence, she turned to her humble servant and said, “This hovel? I wouldn’t take a shit here with your ass!”

“Yes, m’lady,” the driver said with a bow.

As the noble lady approached the house, the Bennets’ faithful servant Wilfred opened the front door. “My lady—” he started.

Lady Catherine raised a lace-gloved hand and said, “The cloth rubbing against my twat is worth more than you’ll make in a lifetime. Get the fuck out of my way.”

The esteemed lady entered the drawing room of the Bennet residence, where the family sat drinking tea. Elizabeth Bennet stood, surprised to receive such an honored guest. “Lady Catherine?” she exclaimed.

The rest of the family immediately stood. Mrs. Bennet cried, “Lady Catherine de Bourgh? Of Rosings? To what do we owe this enormous pleasure?”

“Stuff a cock in it, peasant,” the venerable lady replied. She turned to Ms. Elizabeth Bennet with the posture and poise becoming a lady of her station and said, “Outside, bitch! Just you and me.”

The Bennet family complied with the wishes of the esteemed and respected lady. Elizabeth escorted Lady Catherine to the garden, while the rest of the family returned to their tea.

When the two ladies were alone, Lady Catherine turned to Ms. Bennet and inquired, “You’re fucking my nephew, aren’t you?”

“Excuse me?” replied the young Ms. Bennet.

Lady Catherine promptly repeated. “You’re fucking my nephew,” and added, “You waved your smelly little gold digger pussy around my nephew’s face, and now you’re fucking him.”

Elizabeth Bennet was not as skilled in the art of conversation as the Widow de Bourgh and was unsure of the most appropriate response. She settled for a simple, “Bitch, I might be!”

Lady Catherine was quite taken aback. She had grown used to the ladies and gentlemen around her heeding her pearls of wisdom with quiet and respectful contemplation. This Ms. Bennet had most certainly committed a terrible impropriety, and it was the duty of the renowned Lady to educate the young girl.

“I have two friends I like to introduce to hussies like you,” Lady Catherine said, raising her gloved fists. “I call them Pride and Prejudice!”

With the grace of a dancer, Lady Catherine swung the fist she called Pride, deftly striking Elizabeth Bennet about the face.

As she fell to the ground, Ms. Bennet felt aware of her inferior breeding. She suspected that the Lady of Rosings had more experience with this particular waltz. Elizabeth resolved to bridge the gap of familiarity with cunning. Observing that the ground was still wet from the morning’s rain, she grasped a handful of mud and flung it quite expertly at Lady Catherine’s face.

The soiled projectile struck the lady in the eyes, a development that she found most displeasing. She was further disappointed when the young Ms. Bennet barreled into her in quite an unladylike fashion, sending them both splashing into a nearby mud puddle.

Lady Catherine was now quite vexed by the young Ms. Bennet. She had traveled all this way to Hertfordshire to confront the girl about her improprieties and instruct her in the manners more becoming of a lady, yet Ms. Bennet remained obstinate.

What ensued was a veritable flurry of mud and women’s clothing. When the ladies could not land blows, they resorted to stripping the other of their dignity. Elizabeth’s high-waisted frock was torn at the neckline, followed by her chemise, followed by her corset, until her young breasts were exposed to the mud. Lady Catherine’s garb proved a harder egg to crack. She wore a dress with a high neckline, followed by a chemise, followed by a petticoat, followed by a tightly laced corset. Yet Elizabeth persisted, swinging and slapping and tearing with veracity, until Lady Catherine was similarly exposed.

Despite her dislike for the headstrong girl, Lady Catherine began to feel a stirring in her Netherfield, not unlike the feeling she often experienced when she and her late husband were first wed. This dance that she and Elizabeth were engaged in began to feel more like a sport.

What ensued was a veritable flurry of mud and women’s clothing. When the ladies could not land blows, they resorted to stripping the other of their dignity.

Elizabeth was engaged in a similar line of reasoning. She felt no love for the Lady of Rosings, who represented the very social structure that encouraged the wealthy to look down on those less situated and resigned women to aspire only to marriage. Yet in the midst of their present activities, she could not help but regard the lady as a strong woman who had played the game and succeeded in finding some measure of independence.

This newfound regard was put to the test when Lady Catherine mounted the young Bennet and cried, “Eat my pussy, strumpet!”

Although astonished by this sudden command, Elizabeth was often titillated by acts that were unbecoming of a lady. Thus, she began to lick the finely aged pussy, which was coated in a layer of mud.

Lady Catherine expressed her approval with a resounding, “Yeah, you like that, slut!” Although the Widow de Bourgh had only ever ridden sidesaddle, she began to understand the merits of riding astride one’s mount.

In no time at all, Lady Catherine began to feel a climax coming on. She was ashamed to admit that even she did not know the proper small talk for this occasion, so she settled for a simple yet elegant, “Fuck… yeah… fucking… slut!”

Afterward, the Lady of Rosings stood and gathered her things, leaving the young Ms. Bennet panting and touching herself. Perhaps it was the heat of the moment speaking, but the distinguished lady felt a pang of generosity. She turned to Elizabeth and said, “Marry Darcy, bitch. But only ’cause I said so.”

“The Sisters Lucas” by Na’amen Gobert Tilahun

Maria Lucas was for all intents and purposes invisible. It had taken her most of her eighteen years to perfect this skill. She’d tried to teach it to Mary Bennet, who seemed a perfect candidate; everyone wanted to ignore her and did so almost automatically. Unfortunately, the Bennet sisters had all followed the example of their sister Lizzie in some way, shape, or form. They wanted to be loud; they wanted attention paid to them; they wanted to be known. They did not understand the power in silence.

Not that Maria did not adore Lizzie; she was Charlotte’s best friend and so many years spent at their feet could not help but foster affection between them. Though Maria suspected that Lizzie’s affection was more of the kind one would feel toward a beloved pet. Maria did not mind; underestimation was a lady’s greatest weapon.

When people underestimated you, they did not notice you taking control.

Now with Lizzie married off, as she had always wanted, no matter her vehement denials, and with Charlotte living with her husband, Maria had decided it was time to make her way in the world. She wrote to Charlotte asking to come for a visit. The invitation that arrived days later was not a surprise.

And so she packed her bags and said goodbye to her parents for what she knew would be the last time.

On her first night in her sister’s house, she was awoken by the sound of leather hitting flesh. A sound she was intimately familiar with. Maria rose from the bed, not bothering with a sleep robe, as the weather had been unseasonably warm. Her stockinged feet slid down the hallway, past all the horrible decorations that Lady Catherine had gifted to her pet vicar.

“What is my name?!” Charlotte’s voice rang out, forceful and angry. Maria had never heard her sister sound like that even when she’d spilled ink on Charlotte’s favorite ribbon. The bedroom door was open a crack.

“Charlotte?” Her husband’s voice was muffled.

“Are”—smack—“you”—smack—“asking me?” Smack. “Or”—smack—“are you”—smack—“answering”—smack—“me?”

Maria put her face gently to the crack.

Her brother-in-law was tied to the bedposts, his gnobbly troll body naked. His backside red and glowing in the firelight. Maria’s hand slipped down the front of her thin nightgown. Her eyes darted over to Charlotte, taking in her nude upper body and stocking- and panty-covered lower half. Maria looked back at the doughy man on the bed.

Her fingers slipped under her gown and into herself.

She caught a glimpse of her brother-in-law’s face in the mirror—red cheeks covered in tears, his upper lip covered in mucus. Maria bit back a moan and added two more fingers. This was what she wanted. The breaking of those who thought themselves powerful, the degradation, the shame. In those moments she felt a power denied to the women; she felt a hundred feet tall; she felt numerous and monstrous; she felt wet and tight.

“Charlotte,” he sobbed forcefully.

There were more smacks, and he whimpered and shook as they landed.

“That is right. My name is Charlotte. Not Catherine!” There was a loud crack and Mr. Collins howled in pain. “Silent, fool. Do you want my sister to hear? To come in here and see you like this? You shameful excuse for a man.”

“No, no, no, no,” Mr. Collins sobbed.

The shame and terror in his voice caused Maria to writhe and thrust her fingers deeper.

Her thumb rubbed against her button and she bit her lip as another wet sob escaped Mr. Collins. His pain, his being stripped down to his core, was the most beautiful thing she had seen in so very long.

Maria was no stranger to the erotic arts but the orgasm that took her was quite a surprise. She tightened so hard, she worried her fingers would be pulled from her very hand and even then it would be worth it. She gushed, she poured her midnight joy down her legs and into the carpet.

“You think you are worthy of Lady Catherine?”

Charlotte had her hand buried in Mr. Collins’s hair, pulling his head back so far it must have been painful.

“No.” The word was grunted, strained with pain. He sounded like a little pig. Maria tightened around her fingers again as another wave of pleasure burst through her at the thought of Mr. Collins, naked, wallowing in mud.

“That’s right. She knows you are nothing but a worm, a filthy worm.”

“Uh-oh.”

Even as he came, the most natural of acts, Mr. Collins sounded like something dying in its own filth. She watched as he flopped about, pulling at the restraints that bound him, pale clammy skin turning an unbecoming pink. He flopped and frenzied and her sister stood back, giving him a look of disgust mixed liberally with satisfaction.

Maria pulled her hand from under her gown, too sensitive to stand it any longer, and snuck back to her own room. She lay awake as a plan coalesced where before there had only been hints.

The next day the sisters Lucas sat in the solarium, warmth and companionable silence filling the room.

“Sister, I would ask you a favor.”

“Of course, Maria. If it is within my power, it is yours.”

“I wish to join Lady Catherine’s household.”

Charlotte placed her embroidery on the table while Maria continued her work.

“Why, Maria? That woman is horrid.”

Maria giggled and smiled at her big sister. “Oh, Charlotte, I know. I shall take her in hand and train her, as you have Mr. Collins.”

Charlotte jerked in surprise and then met her eyes. They stared at one another in silent communication for a few moments and then they both burst into giggles and leaned their heads together as they had when they were young girls.

“Oh, Maria, it is so wonderful. To be the center of someone’s world in such a way.”

“I know, Charlotte. But I want more. You are settled here and happy in your position for now. I wish to find my place and I believe Lady Catherine is my first step.”

Charlotte nodded with a slight smirk.

“I will speak to Mr. Collins of it this evening, after we retire.”

Maria smiled and nodded. That night she was awakened by howls and sobbing cries; they echoed down through the small house along with the smacks of wood and leather. She lay in bed, her fingers inside of herself, imagining Mr. Collins, crying and broken at her feet. It was the sweetest sleep she had ever had.

Only a week later, Lady Catherine had generously decided to take Maria in, thanks no doubt to her sister’s influence over the officious toad she had married. She was to be one of Lady Catherine’s maids and she made sure to be the one to help her into her baths, to dress her. She made sure to see Lady Catherine nude as much as possible.

It was a subtle display of dominance to always be clothed while she was naked. Lady Catherine did not acknowledge it consciously but began to respond automatically, allowing Maria to make small suggestions of change to house and wardrobe. Even looking to Maria to decide another servant’s punishment. That is when Maria began to be rougher in her attentions, washing and massaging her lady. Lady Catherine loved it, moving into the feeling, the verge of pain.

She pinched Lady Catherine’s nipples with the tips of her nails when washing her. They creased like old cheese under her keratin.

Maria apologized profusely, of course, pleading exhaustion and Lady Catherine had waved the apology off but Maria had seen the way the old woman had reacted, the way her back had arched, how all the loose skin of her face had slid backward.

The next evening, Lady Catherine asked for Maria specifically to draw her bath. She kept her touch gentle and teasing until she could see the tension building in Lady Catherine’s back.

The

an…

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ci………

pa…………

tion of waiting for something that might never come. She dried the old woman and helped her to bed, the whole time as gentle as a lamb. As she helped Lady Catherine into bed, she could read the disappointment and resignation in the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes and nose and neck and, really, just the mass of wrinkles that was her face.

“You may go, Ms. Lucas.”

“As you wish, mum.”

Maria picked up the last candle to carry with her from the room. As she passed Lady Catherine, she allowed the candle to tip ever so slightly so that the wax slipped down and dripped across Lady Catherine’s exposed thigh.

“Unf.” The moan was cut off and Maria looked up to see that Lady Catherine was staring at her, eyes wide and wet at the corners, her lizardlike point of a tongue slipping out to wet her lips.

“I am so sorry, my lady.”

“No”—a deep breath—“no, my dear. No apologies necessary.” She stared at Maria for a long moment and Maria wondered if the lady’s legendary iron self-possession was about to break. Would Lady Catherine give in to her desires so easily?

“You may go.”

Maria nodded, hiding her grin in the movement. The lady was not truly a challenge, but to break so easily would have undermined any respect Maria had for the harridan.

In all, it took a little over a week for the woman to surrender and invite Maria into her bed. Another week for her to admit to the power she wanted to give up, the vulnerability of giving herself over to another’s power.

She bought silks for Maria to bind her to the bed, paddles of the finest woods and phalluses of the finest, softest wrapped leather. It was a month before Lady Catherine suggested that she present Maria and her sister—“Of course, Maria. Of course”—to the royal court. Maria smiled and nodded as if the idea had truly been Lady Catherine’s.

Lizzie Darcy and her husband came to visit them not long before they were to be presented to court by Lady Catherine.

“That hussy, that strumpet, that miserable ingrate. To come here to my home!”

Maria soaped the woman’s back, ignoring the way the flesh moved as if not connected to muscle at all.

“Did you not invite Mr. Darcy?” A week ago Maria would not have dared to speak to the lady in such a way but their relationship was steady. The lady already appreciated the rough touch of Maria’s hands and knew that if she yelled or snapped at Maria, she would be as gentle as possible. Lady Catherine did not want this but was still too proud to ask for what she did want when the candles were bright and her face visible.

“Well, yes, but I thought he would come alone.”

Maria only hummed as she smoothed her hands around Lady Catherine’s ribs to cup her breasts.

“Well, I… I suppose that would be a foolish hope.”

“Mmm.” Maria bit at Lady Catherine’s shoulders, wrenching a moan out of the woman.

“Let us go to bed, my girl, and dim the lights.”

Maria bit down hard and pressed the older woman’s nipples between her fingers hard enough to wrench a gasp of pain from her.

“What was that?”

“I meant…” The lady’s voice dropped and Maria leaned forward to hear her better. “May we go to bed and dim the lights?”

“Good.”

Maria rose and retrieved a towel for her mistress, who refused to meet her gaze, whose cheeks were pink with excitement, whose fingers kept drifting toward her nether regions.

When they arrived in Lady Catherine’s bedroom, Maria snuffed out most of the candles while Lady Catherine took off her robe and lay naked and spread on the bed. Maria took the ropes of silk and tied her ankles first, then her wrists. Lady Catherine let out a moan.

Maria brought out two of the smaller phalluses in their collection. The smallest slid easily into Lady Catherine’s quim; she found the grease and slicked up the black leather one, a bit thicker than the red one, whose end she could still see as Lady Catherine twitched and moaned in her bonds. It slid into her arse with very little resistance. For a few moments Maria just admired her mistress, stuffed full of phallus rather than hot air. She tapped on the bases of the phalluses and it was as if she played Lady Catherine like an instrument. Tap the red base and she went limp; tap the black base and her body arched and pushed back for more.

It was a game.

Tap, tap

Tap, tap, tap… TAP, TAP

A muffled scream.

“Do not bite the bedding, my dear. You know it creases it and also I enjoy the sounds you make.”

She spent the next hour tapping out rhythms on the phalluses in Lady Catherine, eventually trading them for larger ones that made the lady scream and faint in pleasure.

The visit the next day was very uncomfortable. Lady Catherine refused to acknowledge Lizzie, Anne refused to leave her room, Mr. Collins refused to shut up, and Mr. Darcy refused to sit down. It was tense and Charlotte and Maria both were thankful of their ability to fade into the background and avoid being dragged into any of the conflicts.

Finally Lizzie, Charlotte, and Maria went for a walk in the gardens to talk amongst themselves.

“I honestly do not see how the two of you can be happy here,” were the first words from Lizzie’s mouth.

The two sisters met each other’s eyes over Lizzie’s back as she bent to smell a patch of roses. The sisters Lucas smirked at each other. Lizzie believed herself very worldly and in many ways she was but in many ways she was also naive, blinded by her beliefs. She could only understand her own path; everyone else’s was a mystery to her.

“We enjoy it. As I told you, Lizzie dear, I do not desire much in life. What I want, I have here,” Charlotte answered, putting on the sad, lonely spinster face.

“And it is a nice place for me to decide where I wish to go next.” Maria tried on her own naive, young fool expression.

Lizzie looked at them both with a sad turn of her mouth and a widening of her bovine eyes. She was sad for them. Maria found it cute.

Poor Lizzie would never understand the Lucas’s way to power. The power to be invisible in public and someone’s leader in private, but she was happy in her world and perhaps that was all anyone could hope for.

As for Maria, well, she had an appointment to meet the queen next week. Her next step was in her grasp and she would reach for it with both hands.

“The Lost Epilogue” by Maggie Tokuda Hall

Historians may never come to a consensus on the veracity of the following epilogue. It was not found within Jane Austen’s estate, but rather, within a collection of papers discarded amidst her maid Lizzie Wallace’s diaries. It is possibly the first known “fanfiction.” And while most historians agree that while the characters are familiar, the language and the situations therein are certainly not canonical.

Pride and Prejudice: The Found Epilogue.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that while monogamy is an easy and good arrangement to make, it is a tedious and difficult one to keep. So it was that Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy, the new Lady of Pemberley, found herself in want of extramarital sexual attention.

It was not that she did not love Fitzwilliam; of course she did. But she learned on her wedding night that his stiffness in manner and countenance translated equally and proportionately to his behavior in their bedroom. While his poetry about her was fervent with desire, his actions between the sheets? Less so. Coitus with him typically consisted of a few impatient and silent thrusts, a deep exhalation, and his underclothes back on within the minute.

Flicking the bean to make up for the difference just would not cut it anymore.

Eliza needed cock. Real, sturdy cock. Thick, long, and hungry cock. It was all she could think of, starved for it as she was. It was with acute disappointment that she evaluated the staff, the entirety of it—from the footmen to the stable boy—and found not a single fuckable dude in the entire joint.

Eliza sighed, the deep and despondent sigh of a woman in dire need of a raucous hump. Resigned to another day of disappointment, she lay back on her fainting couch and opened the well-worn pages of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It had become her habit, when in need of sexual inspiration, to visit the library and open the pages of the play to Oberon’s might and anger—to imagine the Fairy King, vast and muscled, upon her, his hands tearing through her clothes, her lips upon her neck.

Her hand found home between her legs as she imagined, and she moaned.

No sooner had the sound escaped her lips than she heard a SNAP, like someone cracking a crop against a horse’s flank. For a brief and delirious moment, she thought, she prayed, she hoped, that the Fairy King had become manifest, that he would stand before her in all his glory, poised to fuck her face off.

She was close, but not correct.

Before her stood a satyr, his goaty tail flicking with excitement.

“My lady,” he said with a bow. His bow was low and lovely, the kind of bow one did before royalty. Eliza felt her pussy quicken.

“Oh, sweet satyr, please, please tell me you are here to give me the rutting I so desperately need!”

The satyr blinked, all confusion. “Ma’am? I’m, uh, here to grant—”

“My desire to fuck, yes, yes! I hear all you little fellows have the most splendidly gargantuan of wieners—that’s what all the books say. You will show me, won’t you?” She couldn’t help it; her voice was a rush of anticipation, an unstoppable flow. She’d already pulled her underthings to the floor and flung them across the room, where they rested, unceremoniously, across the marble bust of her husband. “I hear you’re hung like the Tower of London.”

Gathering his wits, the satyr straightened. “I, my lady, am that merry wanderer of the night, the forest spirit, Puck. I came to grant your dearest wish… I just thought it’d be, like, your husband’s affection or like a new pianoforte, not—”

“What? No! Don’t be a frivolous idiot. What I need. Is. Cock.”

Puck shrugged, a lascivious grin growing across his face. “You’re really jumpin’ for a humpin’—”

But before he could finish, Eliza had torn off all her clothes and stood before him, her pink nipples pinched between her fingers.

“Jesus,” the forest spirit said. This lady was forward, and Puck had fucked forest nymphs.

To her unending delight, Puck pulled his penis from his furry loins. It was no impressive thing, and perhaps her face showed it, for Puck smiled his goaty smile and said: “Be patient, lady. It’s a grower, not a shower.”

And in this, the satyr was all truth. For as she watched, his penis grew, first thicker, so it was the width of her wrist, then her ankle. Then it grew longer. And longer. Past his fuzzy navel. Past his protuberant nipples. Past his sly mouth and mischievous eyes. Clear past the top of his horned head.

The Lady of Pemberley gasped, her mind a whir of horny delight. So the Greek fertility pottery was real, she realized, an actual account of the most magnificent organ meat she had ever beheld.

Just as she bent over the mahogany side table to receive his blessed meat, just at the absolute most incriminating moment, her pussy lips spread between her fingers, wet with anticipation of that elephantine peen, her husband, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, strode into the library.

He blinked. He stepped out, then back in again. His eyes drifted to his marble bust, where his wife’s underthings hung. Eliza and Puck stood frozen, in shock.

“What the—my Elizabeth,” he sputtered. “Are you… fucking livestock?”

“Hey!” Puck shouted. “Racist.”

“Little man,” Darcy hissed. “If it walks like a goat, and fucks like a fucking goat, then for fuck’s sake, it’s a fucking—”

“Fucking your wife you—” Puck interjected.

“Enough!” Eliza cried. She stood and approached her husband, her hand pressed gently against his chest. She knew she must intervene before his good opinion was irrevocably lost. “This is the forest spirit, Puck. He came and kindly obliged my desire to have my poonanie plundered.” She smiled generously at Puck. “It was my dearest wish.”

“But… but that’s my job!” Darcy whined. “Not the job of farm animals!”

“Wouldn’t need a farm animal if you could give your wife a good plow,” Puck spat back.

“Boys!” Eliza yelled. They both stilled at her sternness. “Let us not be blinded by our pride.” Here, she reached out and laid a consolatory hand upon Puck’s cheek. “Or our prejudice.” She touched her husband’s cheek, lovingly, gently. “Let us instead sample the sexy strange we all know we really want.”

“She’s right,” said Puck.

Darcy smiled, one of his rare smiles. “She always is.”

Darcy made up for his questionable comments almost immediately by taking the satyr’s cock in his mouth and sucking it as if the cure for consumption lay within it. As he did so, Eliza spread her husband’s butt cheeks apart and licked his tight little butthole, causing him to moan, wetly, around Puck’s dingle.

The satyr brought something out in her husband, something alive and wanting, something gross. Eliza was all about it.

Perhaps her husband was not all stiffness, after all, Eliza reflected, but stiff only where it counted, which was to say his penis, which she now took in her own butthole, which she made loose and prepared for such intrusion by sodomizing herself with a candle while her lovers had furiously made out. Her anus was an abiding thing, and Darcy pumped madly in and out of it.

Meanwhile, with much careful positioning, Puck situated his goat legs such that his nearly three-foot-long cock, still wet with Darcy’s spit, could reach Eliza’s lady cave. She moaned with transcendent happiness as it finally entered her, filling her in the way that she had craved so fervently for all her life.

Yes, having a butthole full of Darcy and a pussy full of Puck, this was it. This was the happiest moment of Mrs. Darcy’s life. She relished the way Puck’s furry goat legs brushed against her inner thighs now and again and the way that Darcy’s fingers felt as they stroked her nipples.

They all came together, magnificently, in unison, as though in the crescendo of some marvelous dance. Eliza felt Darcy’s cum, hot and wet, fill her poop chute as Puck pulled his wiener out and came all over Eliza’s tits and just a little on her chin. She was amused and pleased to learn that night that she was a squirter, though less pleased that her cum had laid waste to her well-loved copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

“Oh, Mrs. Darcy,” Mr. Darcy said.

“Oh, Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Darcy said.

The postcoital mess, the semen and spray, the sweat and goat pellets, were not their problem, after all. That was for the servants to clean. Such was the great joy of being rich.