The Deadly Sin of Sloth

“For Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do”   - Isaac Watts

Miss Elizabeth Bennet was excessively diverted; after all, nails just don’t paint themselves. This rare display of diligence had been motivated by her choice of polish. After all, she was so into the very expensive Azature Black Diamond, it was just the perfect look.

Her nail focus didn’t waver as the year twelve English class gathered for Thursday’s double period. Not even when Dr Charlotte Lucas started to outline their final and crucial Shakespeare assignment.

And, consequently, despite the milieu of students diligently taking notes, Dr Lucas also found herself being excessively diverted. The English teacher often caught herself glancing at the achingly pretty Elizabeth. But, on this occasion, it was Elizabeth’s attitude rather than her looks that caught the eye. For, while obsessing about her fingernails, her body language screamed, ‘whatever.’

That put Charlotte Lucas in a quandary. On the one hand, she could, as most did with Elizabeth, wait until she was ready, make eye contact with her limpid blue eyes, still her own fluttering heart, and then repeat the instructions.

It is, however, a truth universally acknowledged in teaching circles, that an idle student, even one in possession of good fortune, must face the consequences of her inactions.

And, as Dr Lucas realised, that was only fair to those who were always diligent, such as Elizabeth’s sister. Both were leading contenders for the prestigious academic excellence award that would soon be presented at the school’s final assembly.

Jane was of course just as achingly pretty as her younger twin, but Charlotte Lucas had concluded long ago that Jane had got all the goodness, whereas Elizabeth had all the appearance of it.

Being enchanted by the task of being seen creating the perfect look, Elizabeth so couldn’t be bothered focusing on her English teacher who just seemed to be muttering on and on about feminine perspectives on King Lear.

A fatal mistake, if you expected an A-grade, as it turned out, as Dr Lucas had, in fact, explained that the students’ task was evaluating feminist perspectives of the Bard’s tragedy.

For Elisabeth, however, the assignment was so next week and there was, after all, a more pressing matter on her mind, namely Charles’s party on the weekend. That had been her focus all through the week, as she had every intention of once again engaging Charles Bingley in intercourse, preferably in his absent parents’ bed, and most certainly with the knowledge of the other ladies in her year group.

For when it came to conjugal relations, Elizabeth was without pride or indeed prejudice.

She had a reputation, though not even Jane knew the full extent of her sister’s moral rectitude, for industriously removing her drawers for anyone. Well not just anyone, it was more precise to say she conscientiously removed her drawers for anyone who’d help her get more from life.

And she’d begun to comprehend that Charles was exactly the man who, in disposition and talents, would most suit her. It was a union that must be to the advantage of both: by her ease and willingness, his meat might never be softened, his stamina improved; and from his size, experience, and knowledge of the quim, she would receive a fucking of great importance.

So, inevitably, the truth in Jane’s frequent observation that diligence was a trait Elizabeth reserved for sex and make-up, was indeed demonstrated that weekend when Elizabeth’s pursuit of Charles reached the pointy end.

As his swollen member thrust repeatedly into her wet welcoming quim, stretching her more than anyone else had ever done, Elizabeth Bennet was overcome not only by a pair of scrumptious orgasms but also with the certain knowledge that she was the school’s top bitch, a label she had usurped as the female equivalent of top dog, a title that certainly applied to Charles.

Then, as Charles and Elizabeth reclined in his parents’ bed in sticky post-orgasmic contentment, she finally focused on the week ahead and said, “My fine fellow, what do you say to helping me with the assignment, due Friday, on a feminine perspective on King Lear?”

After such quality horizontal refreshment, the head boy would have consented to anything, a fact of which the head girl was fully aware. So, they arranged to meet up and work on the assignment together. Though they agreed that no one should find out about that, after all, copying and plagiarism were complete no-nos.

“Easy, beauty,” Charles observed, “we will let it be known we are fornicating more regularly and everyone will accept that as reasonable cover.”

“A bit of English, then a bit of meat. Sounds perfect to me.”

“I think you’ll find this is much more than a bit of meat, Elizabeth.”

You can, therefore, imagine Elizabeth and Charles’s surprise when Dr Lucas handed back the marked English assignments a fortnight later. For they achieved B’s and oh that was not good enough.

While Charles contemplated his options, Elizabeth, once class was finished, strode purposefully after Dr Lucas intent on confronting her in her office on the topic of marking inadequacies.

That conversation from Elizabeth’s perspective did not start well. With carefully crafted and accurate words the deputy head outlined the inconsistency between the head girl’s careless answers and the assessment requirements for an A.

“Have you any other objection than your belief of my indifference?” Elizabeth said, thinking a little Jane Austen might impress.

It didn’t.

So, with logic and literary quotes not helping, what was a girl to do? Well, that’s obvious really. Miss Elisabeth Bennet simpered, fluttered her eyelashes and generally played the femme fatale.

To perfection it transpired, as, unbeknownst to the younger woman, a flood of biblical proportions soaked the older woman’s drawers.

While Charlotte Lucas prided herself on clear-headed consideration, she did fear the loss of control if her quim took over her thinking for her. With good reason as it turned out.

“You little bitch,” the deputy head snapped, suddenly aware that her drawers were glued to her sodden slit, “do you think your good looks can get you anything you want?”

“That and papa’s money,” Elizabeth observed insightfully.

“They can’t save you from this,” the steamed-up teacher said reaching for the cane, a piece of office memorabilia that was thought purely ceremonial until that very moment.

“Bend over, this should act as a pick-me-up for a sloth like you,” Dr Lucas firmly said.

Feeling at a dead end with her arguments, the head girl did not see any option but to fold the hand she had been dealt and see if another set of cards bought better fortune. So, she bent over, flicked up her skirt and displayed her pert derriere, bare apart from the sliver of black thong that ran up her crack.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet momentarily registered the swish of the cane before she felt a sharp painful sting as it thudded into her behind. Her watery eyes betrayed her attempt at stoicism as her firm bottom reddened with repeated bamboo lashes. ‘Perhaps,’ she thought, ‘perhaps I will have to renounce my slothful ways.’

There was a stubbornness about Elizabeth that never could bear to be frightened at the will of others. Her courage always rose at every attempt to intimidate her.

So, before she did anything as radical as embracing diligence, Elizabeth applied her considerable intellect to the question of whether there was an easier way out of the situation she found herself in.

And it transpired that she did indeed find one.

The Deadly Sin of Lust

“Luxury, lavish of her ruined fame, Loose-haired, wild-eyed, her voice a dying fall, Lost in delight"  - Prudentius.

Dr Charlotte Lucas was a sensible intelligent woman; just turned thirty-five, she’d been entrusted with year twelve English, the only compulsory subject for graduating students.

Recently appointed deputy head, she had also shown a flair for administration, a skill that she hoped would help propel her to the position for which she had a disposition, namely Head of St Trinian’s Ladies College.

The deputy head considered it appropriate to present herself to the school community as a bespectacled, prim and proper, some would say bookish version of English teacher. Yet, the fact that not a school day had passed without Charlotte Lucas needing at least one change of drawers, suggested all was not as it seemed on the surface.

For, while it is true that a co-ed school halved the distraction, this year’s seniors contained a rare concentration of delectable female eye candy. Comforted by the fact that her charges were all past the age of consent, she couldn’t resist dipping her toe in temptation’s pool, her eyes continually being diverted by the curve of breasts pressing against white blouses and glimpses of inner thighs as tartan skirts swirled.

And, as it happened, the more she glanced, the more desperately she needed relief. Which came in the form of torrid masturbation sessions in the private john attached to the office of the deputy head. There, in her mind, she became a seductress rampaging through the upper sixth like a lesbian D'Artagnan, her sword a thick strap-on jutting lewdly from her trimmed quim.

She knew these thoughts were of dubious morality and not consistent with the New South Wales Education Department’s guidelines on appropriate student-teacher interactions. For it’s a truth universally acknowledged, that a wandering eye in possession of a good position, must not be in want of temptation.

Her resolve not to give in to said temptation had bent but hadn’t broken, right up to the moment when Elizabeth Bennet entered the deputy head’s office bristling with righteous indignation and not able to comprehend how she hadn’t got an A for her final English assignment that merited at best a B grade.

In wielding the cane on the less diligent Bennet bottom, the deputy head thought she was making an effort, albeit an unorthodox one, to impress upon Elizabeth the consequences of being bone idle. Tough love meets student counselling, perhaps.

Which might have been fair enough, except Charlotte Lucas had overlooked the messy state in which the femme fatale of a head girl had left her quim. And, consequently, with the steam going out of her swinging right arm, disaster struck.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet turned to the deputy head, her face damp with tears, and said through gritted teeth, “Methinks you like lashing my bottom. If a woman conceals her affection with skill from the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fucking me.”

And a dam burst inside her English teacher. Lust, combined with that Jane Austen allusion, was such a heady mix that Charlotte Lucas was drained of rational thought; her quim took over and D'Artagnan reached for the strappy she kept in her top draw; kept there just on the off chance she might need it one day.

Having stirred the possum, Elizabeth was gobsmacked. The girth of the thick strap-on which jutted lewdly from her English teacher’s quim was eyewatering. “Even more impressive than Charles,” she finally whimpered, her quim oozing juices onto the deputy head’s walnut veneer desk.

That was all she saw of that particular girl-appendage, for her English teacher pressed on her back and squashed her bosoms into the desk. Having torn her thong asunder, D'Artagnan, in one smooth thrust of her hips, impaled the head girl’s tightish quim filling her like never before.

Then, in words way too crude to have normally been uttered by an English teacher or indeed a Regency novelist, but ones whose accuracy makes up for their coarseness, she fucked the crap out of Elizabeth.

Taking her. Stretching her. Rutting like an animal, the galloping hooves of Charlotte Lucas’s approaching orgasm overrode any possibility of remorse. The deputy head surrendered herself to her forbidden fantasy and embraced the exquisite joy of pounding her sword deep into what she imagined was the prettiest quim in year twelve.

And D'Artagnan came hard, as hard as she’d ever orgasmed, her come-juices oozing and dripping on the school emblem woven into the carpet.

As she recovered her breath, she wondered whether the hoof beats she heard were in fact the four horsemen of her apocalypse. And when Elizabeth said, in an affectionate satiated post-orgasmic tone of voice, “Well in return for my silence, I’m expecting an A and your support for the dux award,” she knew that indeed the first rider of the storm had spoken.

Perhaps, Charlotte Lucas thought, perhaps I will have to renounce my lustful ways. But before she did anything as radical as re-embracing chastity, she thought it might be advantageous to have a word with the principal.

The Deadly Sin of Pride

“All men make mistakes, but a good man yields when he knows his course is wrong, and repairs the evil. The only crime is pride." - Sophocles, Antigone.

Cynics with a good command of language used the word unctuous when describing the principal of St Joseph’s. A sentiment echoed by the coarser members of the school community, though their preferred term was ‘greasy piece of crap.’

From the Chair of the Board of Governors to the newest first-year student, no one was exempt from William Collins’ mixture of pride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility.

For nothing could be allowed to tarnish his vainglorious belief that his school was a beacon of educational excellence.

And, equally important at a Catholic school, the principal wanted the bishop to see students being nurtured in a moral, family-orientated environment. Which turned out to be a labour of Hercules, given their tendency to take horizontal refreshment in the manner of rabbits.

A year previously he had become one of the five nominees for the state’s Principal of the Year award. When news of that nomination broke, he reached peak obsequiousness, having determined that he would spend the entire year ensuring that he maximised his chances of winning the coveted award which the Minister of Education would announce in the week after the school’s final assembly.

It is, however, a truth principals universally acknowledge, even ones in possession of fee-paying students, that they must be in want of good fortune.

And luck had indeed been on the prideful Collins shoulder all year. Well, at least it had been until the deputy head took his counsel on the matter of the academic attainment of the head girl.

Having outlined how Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s English answer betrayed a slothfulness not exhibited by others including her sister, the deputy head was surprised by the principal’s response.

“I know ladies don't seek to seem too eager...”

He paused, his attention on the photo of the Board of Governors in which he was in the middle, seated alongside the Chair, Mr Bennet. The Mr Bennet who, as it happened, was the school’s biggest donor and the papa of the head girl and deputy head girl.

“I must conclude,” the principal observed, “that she simply seeks to increase her marks by suspense, according to the usual practice of elegant females.”

“But,” the deputy head stuttered, “Jane’s got all the goodness, Elizabeth only the appearance of it.”

“I have the highest opinion in the world of your excellent judgment in all matters within the scope of your understanding.”

Patronizing maggot pie, she thought, but there again, she was the strumpet who’d fucked the head girl, so she was in no position to cast stones. Now was not the time to dwell on the words of Jane Austen, ‘I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine.’

“So how do you think I should proceed, principal? Should Elizabeth not face the consequences of her inactions?” Charlotte Lucas asked.

“I think with Miss Elizabeth Bennet, there are benefits which are only to be obtained through intercourse...”

The principal paused, as a herd of year eight boys thundered past his office like stampeding wildebeest. So distracted was he by the noise that he failed to notice the stunned look on the deputy head’s face, having heard the words Elizabeth Bennet and intercourse in the same sentence.

Mr Collins continued, once the noise had passed, “Forgive me... through the intercourse of friendship or civility.”

In what he pridefully thought was a stroke of genius, he added, “Jane and Elizabeth are twins. I am sure they, and indeed Mr Bennet, will be delighted if Elizabeth’s marks are raised to the same level as Jane’s.”

So proud was he of his elegant solution that it never crossed his mind to do anything as radical as embracing humility. And consequently, he never considered the reality of the old saying that pride comes before a fall.

The Deadly Sin of Gluttony

“All that I have given to my stomach has disappeared, and I have retained all the fodder I gave to my spirit”  - Callimachus

Charles Bingley was the man.

He stood out from the crowd, and not just because he had dark skin in a school that made vanilla seem colourful. Oh no, he accentuated that difference with a sartorial style that would have seemed outrageous on a Sydney Mardi Gras float.

The more Neanderthal members of the school’s rugby first-fifteen assumed he was gay, but his tastes were more catholic than that. Catholic in the sense of universal, certainly not catholic in the sense of keeping himself pure until his wedding night.

For Charles had discovered early on that he was a boy of prodigious appetites. There was no other way of putting in, he adored his horizontal refreshment and was born with the libido of a stud racehorse.

And that wasn’t the only prodigious aspect to Charles. A whispering campaign had spread like a virus through the female half of the year group after Miss Elizabeth Bennet had first sampled Charles’s charms.

It was now widely known in the girl’s locker room that Charles had a substantial slab of meat, and, in comparing notes, the female half of the year group had agreed that it was the largest by a considerable margin.

A cliché to be sure, but once Charles realised that BBC wasn’t just an English television service, he wasn’t shy of taking advantage of his reputation. For, it's a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a large dick, isn’t in want of company.

Discussion of Charles’ meat was more restrained, well so restrained as to be virtually non-existent, in the boys’ locker room. But the whispering campaign that the rugger buggers had started about his sexuality did have the advantage of suggesting his interest to those of that particular persuasion, though that locker room certainly had bigger closets.

Earlier in the year, after rugby practice, Charles Bingley had found himself saying to Fitzwilliam Darcy, the school’s sports captain and deputy head boy, “I've never seen so many pretty girls in my life!”

“Where?” Darcy had asked.

“At the school dance, last Friday, you idiot.”

“You were dancing with the only handsome girl in the room.”

The use of the word handsome rather than pretty had given Bingley cause to ponder. So, he had said, “She is the most beautiful creature I have ever beheld. But her sister Elizabeth is very agreeable.”

“Thoroughly tolerable, I daresay, but not handsome enough to tempt me.”

And that turned out to be the chink in the armour of heteronormality that seemed to be stitched into St Joseph’s rugby jerseys.

Darcy had always drawn the attention of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien, and the report which was in general circulation within five minutes of starting school, of his having an allowance of ten thousand a year.

Originally the boys pronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the girls declared he was much handsomer than Bingley, and he was looked at with great admiration.

But somewhere along the line, his manners gave a disgust which turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be proud, to be above his company, to be above being pleased and being unworthy to be compared with his friend.

Yet the truth was far more complex than that. For Darcy’s pride wasn’t that of the deadly sin; rather he had pride in being the gay bottom-boy he was, and a loathing of the prejudice that came with being an outsider.

Silence was the way he managed his difference, his rugby skills allowing him the patina of an insider and adorning him with two status badges: captain of the first fifteen and a senior prefect.

So, on understanding the implications of the word ‘handsome,’ Charles had become much more sympathetic to his friend. And his support for Darcy had turned into enthusiasm when Bingley discovered that his friend gave the best head in the year group. Indeed, Charles had long ago concluded that the suction of his mouth far exceeded that of everyone else, even Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

Late on the Thursday afternoon that the King Lear assignment had been handed back, Charles Bingley was in need of a distraction from the shock of his unexpected B-grade. Which is why, with the rest of the rugby squad having headed home, Bingley called across the boys’ changing room, “Suck my cock you fucking sloven.”

Enough said really. Darcy let the towel slip from his body as he emerged from the shower, whimpered, “Yes, Master,” and fell to his knees.

Crawling across the locker room floor, naked, his own cock engorging, Darcy’s eyes were firmly focused on his master’s meat which jutted lewdly from where the head boy was sitting in front of his locker.

Darcy’s lips surrounded the helmet and he licked the sensitive underside of the prodigious member. With the dick stretching his mouth, the deputy head boy started to bob up and down, devouring the head boy’s meat inch by inch, his drool dribbling down and coating the Bingley balls.

Sliding ever deeper onto the engorged shaft, he soon felt Charles’s hands on his head and his hips begin to thrust, the usual sign that the head boy was about to come.

But right at that moment, an unfortunate event occurred. The principal unexpectedly entered the locker room, pridefully intent on giving the chair of the board a tour of the recently refurbished boys’ changing rooms.

With eyes closed in ecstasy, Charles Bingley didn’t see the principal and Mr Bennet. Though they sure saw his dick explode in the captain of the first fifteen’s mouth. And, as usual, they saw Darcy unable to cope with the task of swallowing the prodigious cum flow, some of which leaked from his mouth and dribbled onto his toned muscular chest.

The principal was distraught. Not, as it happened, by the fact that his two senior male prefects were fornicating.

Oh no, rather he was upset that the chair of the board had seen and that he would tell the bishop. And then the bishop would insist something should be done. And that meant suspension, and suspension for buggery would not play well with a secular evaluation of who should win the principal of the year award.

But much to his surprise, Mr Bennet poured oil on those troubled waters, saying, “The refurbishment looks spectacular. Shall we take tea now, principal?”

So, they took tea and the principal accepted the chair’s kind offer to have a quiet word with each of the boys. One that the principal and chair assured each other, need never reach the ears of the bishop.

Even though Bingley was an orgasm glutton, he too had been inclined to pour oil on troubled waters. It had crossed his mind that he should do something radical and suggest he would embrace some temperance of his appetites.

But he was saved from that by the chair of the board hurrying the principal off to tea. And, as it happened, that would have been an entirely unnecessary sacrifice on his part. For the hell fire that would consume the principal's ambition was already well ablaze.

The Deadly Sin of Greed

“I am afraid that our eyes are bigger than our stomachs, and that we have more curiosity than understanding. We grasp at everything, but catch nothing except wind.” ― Michel de Montaigne.

Mr Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three and twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his character.

Which potentially was just as well.

For gradually, over time, Mr Bennet had fallen deeply in love. And that love was not directed at his wife. It is more accurate to say that when it came (and it rarely did anymore) to Mrs Bennet, the bonds of love had untethered in Mr Bennet’s mind.

Most would think it's a truth universally acknowledged, that a discontented married man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a mistress.

But Mr Bennet was not of a disposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own imprudence had brought on, in any of those pleasures which too often console the unfortunate regarding their folly or their vice.

That he had made his marital bed and would lie in it was his thinking.

His blossoming love was not something he felt the need to discuss with his family. Though Mrs Bennet should have had an inkling, given that husband’s busyness at work had gone well beyond that necessary to endow her in worldly goods.

Mr Bennet did know that relationships needed nurturing and so he had devoted time and effort to the object of his affection. The business of business, the making of money, that was what got his carriage running. He was greedy for more, and for the respect that more generated.

It would be a stretch to describe Mr Bennet as a feminist. But he had never once thought that a son would make his life more complete than his twin daughters.

But over the last year, his pride in Elizabeth had become tarnished with prejudice. She had lost her shine, becoming, in his view, a triumph of style over substance.

Mr Bennet was anticipating that the day would come where Elizabeth must be a stranger to one of her parents. Her mother would never see her again if she did marry the business, and he would never see her again if she didn’t. He was aware of the advice given to parents not to play favourites, but Jane, on the other hand, seemed to have got all the goodness, while Elizabeth only had the appearance of it. But what to do about that dichotomy escaped him.

He salved his conscience about family life by embracing philanthropy. That had pleased Mrs Bennet, who liked the acknowledgement that came with giving to the community. And she liked her husband’s pride in his charitable endeavours, though she knew he saw them as an antidote to what he imagined his life was about, making sport for his neighbours and laughing at them in his turn.

One of his earliest charitable endeavours had been St Joseph’s; he figured if has was going to do good why not do good at a place where his daughters would benefit. And through the first five years of their senior schooling, he was accustomed to arriving at school to inspect the latest addition he had funded with all the appearance of his usual philosophic composure.

He said as little as he had ever been in the habit of saying. Until, that is, the day he had come across the deputy head boy blowing the head boy’s impressive meat.

It hadn’t surprised Mr Bennet’s that the principal had unctuously accepted his offer to take the boys under his wing. After all the principal knew a get out of gaol free card when he was offered one.

But in counselling the head boy, Mr Bennet did have a surprise and indeed a delight; Charles Bingley had demonstrated an eye for money-making. That surprise was echoed in Charles when he worked out that, while the chair of the board wasn’t in want of a mistress, he was in want of sowing another variety of wild oats.

Mr Bennet always was greedy for the best and biggest, which his locker room observation convinced him that Charles was.

He could, of course, have confirmed that with his younger daughter, as she was, to date, the only recipient of a secret status award that the girls in the year group had dubbed the Omnium; earned by taking horizontal refreshment with every boy bar one, it had been agreed, in the year group.

And it is likewise true to say that Elizabeth could also have counselled papa that being pegged by the deputy head’s strappy would be an even more fulsome experience. Which, however much it may have shocked Mr Bennet that his daughter had not only worked her way through the year group’s dicks, but was also working her way through the quims of the girls and staff, would have at least made her lack of diligence more understandable.

One particular Thursday, a month after the King Lear assignments had been returned, Charles Bingley once againa hungrily kissed Mr Bennet, feeling his stubble scrap across his skin. He then twisted his classmates’ papa around, pressing his chest into his work desk so his tight pucker was on display and his dick firming.

This was a consummation devoutly to be wished and Mr Bennet looked behind, groaning with the delicious anticipation that, for him, now only came with Charles, and said, “Use me cruelly, nobody touches my nerves like you and your big dick.”

Charles gripped his meaty shaft and slapped it against Mr Bennet’s dick. The chair of the board whimpered, as Charles drooled spit onto his bottom, knowing the prodigious dick would soon be filling him more completely than anything gone before.

Those whimpers turned to moaning, the world narrowing, as Charles massaged the spit into his bottom, his thumb teasing Mr Bennet open.

“Such an anal-whore, sir,” Charles said as he gripped Mr Bennet’s hips and drove his dick into the chair’s bottom, stretching and burning his anal ring as it slid over the massive dick.

Having impaled the Bennet bottom (boy version,) the head boy paused, letting the chair of the board adjust to the girth. And then Charles jackhammered him with the energy that only the young can muster. Slamming repeatedly, deep and hard, without restraint, his hips slapping against the older man’s bottom cheeks.

Moaning became screaming as Mr Bennet lost control and came, his cock spurting ropes of cum over the family motto Mrs Bennet had stitched into the rug that covered his office floor. That was enough to trigger his gigolo, and he shuddered as he spilled his seed into yet another bottom-hole.

Then, after they recovered from their monster cums, Charles said, in an affectionate satiated post-orgasmic tone of voice, “My mother would love me to get the dux award. Can I count on your support?”

Momentarily Mr Bennet wondered whether he should support his daughters. But Elizabeth was bone idle and Jane so good-natured that he said, “Of course. I will recommend that to the principal, who owes me one.”

Mr Bennet had occasionally wondered if he should renounce his greedy ways, but his newfound love for BBC re-confirmed his belief that the biggest and brightest was best. And he figured what could go wrong if he focused on money. After all, everyone benefited when philanthropy turned greed into charity.

The Deadly Sin of Envy

"The envious person grows lean with the fatness of their neighbour." - Socrates

Gin was, Mrs Bennet had discovered, an anaesthetic for the emotions.

Was it a sign of alcoholism, she pondered, as she opened another bottle of Bombay Sapphire, that her only source of unconditional love was a vapour infusion distiller in faraway Hampshire?

“Though,” she tartly observed, as the alcohol, infused with ten hand-selected exotic botanicals, tumbled onto ice, “It can hardly be unconditional love if I have to pay for it.”

Her intoxication with the familiar citrus and juniper scent, however, didn’t override her judgement. Too much neat gin could make her way too squiffy for her early evening appointment. So, she buzzed downstairs and asked Wickham, the Bennet family’s butler, to bring tonic to the conservatory.

The butler emerged from the flower beds in front of the conservatory having picked a lime from the kitchen garden, a slice of which he added, along with the tonic, to Mrs Bennet’s stiffish gin.

“Wickham,” Mrs Bennet said, “you and cook shouldn’t stay. Mr Bennet is working late.”

“Again?” Wickham observed empathically.

“Yes, running a successful business takes continuous attention. And Jane and Elizabeth will be late home too. Jane is writing a speech for the final school assembly and Elizabeth has been asked to re-work her King Lear assignment.”

Wickham kept to himself his thoughts on what Miss Elizabeth was more likely to be working. He nodded, acknowledging his gratitude for being given an early mark. For it was his twentieth wedding anniversary and he was delighted to have the extra time to spend with the love of his life.

Mrs Bennet knew it was his wedding anniversary, so she was pleased to have no further demands on his time. And yet, she couldn’t quite bring herself to offer her congratulations.

“Oh why,” she found herself thinking, not for the first time, “Why can’t my husband be as attentive to his marriage as Wickham is to his?"

There was of course an irony in her maudlin reflections, though certainly not a delicious irony, for the taste was so tart and bitter.

For Mrs Bennet was universally envied. Her status in the community, her philanthropy, the quality of her home and even her successful twin daughters, were seen as beyond the reach of those who came in contact with her.

Most admired the fact that Mr Bennet’s income kept the household well-endowed with worldly goods. That left her to what would have, in times gone past, been called the business of getting her daughters married.

But even if they were inclined to settle down, neither of her daughters considered their future to be any of their mother’s business. So, it was many a year since she had felt appreciated in those domestic tasks.

“Nobody,” she muttered, “can tell what I suffer, but it is always so.”

Mrs Bennet had always kept a stiff upper lip, knowing that those who do not complain are never pitied. Yet she did envy her husband's and daughters’ capacity for single-mindedness.

Her maudlin reflections were interrupted by footsteps, and that noise heralded him coming up the back passage. And the shot of energy and excitement she got from that double entendre was enough for Mrs Bennet’s cloud of ennui to evaporate.

She smiled with gratitude. For it’s a truth universally acknowledged, that a lonely woman in possession of a needy quim, must be in want of a good fucking.

She knew she certainly had her share of beauty, but she did not usually pretend to be anything extraordinary now. But in his arms her melancholy transmogrified, and she became someone unexpected; a vision which, if seen, her daughters would have thought grotesque. She was the MILF extraordinaire, BBC her speciality.

Charles Bingley slipped into the drawing-room and locked eyes with Mrs Bennet.

Words were unnecessary. Like moulting animals, they shed their outer layers, and Mrs Bennet took a moment to appreciate the toned chest, six-pack abs, and the large bulbous-headed penis that was hardening before her eyes.

Then the chair of the PTA sashayed over to the Head Boy. Given the money he was paid, Charles always took care to judge the mood of his lover. But all he could think of, as he watched her large breasts sway as she walked, was that hers sagged more than those of her daughter, Elizabeth, which he had again cupped in his hands earlier in the day while supposedly rewriting their King Lear assignment.

But he needn’t have worried about being Sherlock Holmes when it came to Mrs Bennet’s preferences.

Her hand circled, or at least went as far around the circumference as she could, his engorged shaft. And she whispered, the gin having removed what little inhibition she had left when it came to her gigolo, “Bend me over the chaise longue and use my slutty quim.”

Though Charles was getting used to the change that came over the respected, tweed-wearing, pillar of the community when she sighted his prodigious member, he was a tad taken aback by the sluttiness of that particular remark.

But never one to deny the upper crust their dose of the rough stuff, especially a well-paying one, he twisted his classmates’ mother around and bent her over the chaise longue so her glistening quim and tight bottom were on display. Well not as tight a bottom as her husband's, he realized, as he thought more carefully about it.

This was a consummation devoutly to be wished and Mrs Bennet looked behind, groaning with the delicious anticipation that, for her, now only came with breaking multiple taboos, and fair screamed, “I am cruelly used, nobody feels for my poor nerves like you and your big fucking dick.”

Charles gripped his meaty shaft and slapped it against her clit. The chair of the PTA whimpered, her honey oozing onto the prodigious cock that would soon be filling her quim more completely than any dick she’d sampled before.

Charles pressed the head of his penis against Mrs Bennet’s wet opening and, holding her hips, he thrust and just took her slutty quim. Pressing deep, his shaft stretched her so deliciously as it slid along her velvet walls.

Having impaled her, he paused, letting her adjust to the girth. And then he jackhammered her with the energy that only the young can muster. Whimpering became moaning, her quim squelching loudly as Charles repeatedly stretched her velvet love-cave.

Then moaning became screaming, as Mrs Bennet lost control and came in a rolling tidal surge of a monster orgasm. That was enough to trigger her gigolo, and he shuddered as he spilled his seed into yet another quim.

Then after the customary snuggle and whispering of sweet nothings, he was off, though the tradesman’s entrance of course, with the usual six hundred dollars in the pocket of his Armani jacket. Just enough, he thought, for the addition of a blue Indigo Aura Meshika hat to his wardrobe.

As the door slammed, Mrs Bennet was grateful and contented, though the clouds of ennui, triggered as always by her envy of others who had more emotional happiness, were beginning to roll through the foothills of her mind, and would eventually shade the total satisfaction that now radiated from the lady of the manor’s used quim.

The Deadly Sin of Anger

“Anybody can become angry — that is easy, but to be angry with the right person and to the right degree and at the right time and for the right purpose, and in the right way — that is not within everybody’s power and is not easy.” - Aristotle

For seventeen years, Jane Bennet had been the model student and daughter.

As Elizabeth had observed on their birthday the previous year, “Oh! you are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in general. You never see a fault in anybody. All the world are good and agreeable in your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a human being in your life.”

However, still waters run deep. All through her senior year, Jane had simmered with barely controlled anger, as one-by-one, the major school awards and appointments had slipped from her grasp.

For it's a truth universally acknowledged, that a patient woman in possession of diligence and application, must be in want of recognition.

The fire of her rage was lit by the decision at the beginning of the year to appoint her sister as the head girl, then continually fuelled month by month, the last log to be tossed on the funeral pyre of her patience being, she anticipated, the dux award for academic excellence, which the principal, who was addressing the final school assembly, was about to announce.

For Jane, this school year had amply demonstrated that those who said virtue was its own reward, didn’t know crap from clay.

In earlier years Jane had been grateful to be considered, humble about her chances, and charitable towards those actually appointed. And, though not unfamiliar with the penis and the gin bottle, she had remained diligent when it came to her studies and consequently somewhat closer to chastity and temperance than anyone else in her year group.

But the appointment of her bone-idle sister, Elizabeth, as head girl had, like an earthquake, tested her patience and rocked the foundations of Jane’s comparatively virtuous life. Prudently, Jane wasn’t, unlike her sister, inclined to spend papa’s generous allowance on frivolous things. But, needing to know the provenance of this travesty of justice, she had sought out the services of Sherlock’s Detective Agency.

While the weasel she had employed had eaten away at her savings, he had proved to be a dab hand at getting information and most importantly photographs. And it is true to say that Jane Bennet had learnt more about life during her final school year from Sherlock than from all her teachers put together.

First off, he had established that Elizabeth had achieved the head girl position by way of Kama Sutra positions with as many voters in the student election as possible.

And for the first time, Jane had turned volcanic as she exploded in anger. But Sherlock had urged patience.

“Patience," Jane had screamed, “another damn virtue! What good has being good served me to date?"

“Revenge,” Sherlock observed, with just the merest hint of a smile, “Is a dish best served cold, Miss Bennet.”

And so, as she sat on stage with the other senior prefects at the final school assembly, listening to the head pridefully recounting the achievements of her graduating class, Jane knew Sherlock had been right.

Though she had grown well beyond anger during the year, the fires of her burning rage, stoked by the continued detective work of the weasel, would only now become visible to a wider audience.

So, prepared as she was, Jane was calmer than most would have expected, when Charles got the nod for the academic excellence award. The same couldn’t be said for Elizabeth, who looked like a stunned mullet, a look that deepened when she, as the designated head prefect speaker, took her speech notes from her pocket.

For the twins had one secret, namely, that Elizabeth had never written a word of any speech she had given as head girl. Their parents had made it perfectly clear to Jane that the Bennet name could not be dragged through the mud by Elizabeth’s lack of application.

So as always, it was Jane’s speech notes that Elizabeth fished from her pocket to look at for the first time, just as the head concluded his speech. The notes started with the standard introduction, but when she turned to subsequent pages, she only found the words, ‘You are on your own,’ written in Jane’s distinctive script.

Elizabeth was rendered mute, as Jane had anticipated, but fortunately, the deputy head girl was on hand to step into the breach. Jane strode to the lectern, first apologising for her sister’s temporary indisposition, and then thanking, on behalf of the year group, parents and staff.

She welcomed visiting dignitaries including the bishop, the local member of parliament, Education Department officials and unexpectedly, at least for everyone else, journalists.

And then Jane commenced the new century’s most epic head girl address, one that would rock the school, would feature in next morning’s Sydney Morning Herald and would even be discussed in parliament.

“You would think that at a Catholic school,” she said, looking directly at the bishop, “that virtue would be rewarded. But not this year, your grace. For, as you know bishop, pride is the worst sin, as it taints every virtue. And pride has run amok this year, I’m sorry to say.”

She saw, out of the corner of her eye, the head and deputy head exchange worried looks, but she continued. “For example, my sister and Charles adopted the strategy of fucking their way into positions and awards I rightfully deserve. And the school leadership supported this sinful strategy.”

Jane paused, noticing that the entire audience had sat straighter and was looking at her with more interest, given her choice of language, than normally attended school speeches.

So, she continued, “Why? you might ask. Well, our head knows that Charles was nominated for the award he has just received by the member of the school community who the head boy is buggering, and our principal without principle doesn’t want that favouritism to detract from the pride he takes in being seen as a beacon of diversity.”

“And, the deputy head is satiating her lusts on my sister’s quim, and the quid pro quo for that wantonness is a change in the B grades she richly deserves to A-pluses.”

In response to howls of ‘no,’ from the school leadership behind her, Jane added, “And I have emailed the confirmatory information to the Sydney Morning Herald.”

Having continued and exorcized all and sundry, including the PTA, which her mother chaired, Jane’s eyes locked onto her papa and she smiled. He knew enough about the art of a deal to know instantly his daughter was offering her continued silence on her papa’s sins in return for a suitable flow of funds in her direction.

He realized he would have to deal with Elizabeth later, but Mr Bennet nodded at his older daughter. Maybe, he pondered, maybe anger isn’t such a deadly sin when it is righteous anger, and Jane certainly wasn’t in the wrong.

After concluding her speech, Jane passed Charles on her way to speak to the journalists, and she stared meaningfully at the dux award nestled in his lap.

“Mine,” she hissed.

Charles’s eyes met hers and his hand drifted under her skirt and caressed her inner thigh as he enquired, “Mine?” and offered her the Dux award.

For her that was a more than acceptable terms-of-trade, so Jane Bennet took the dux award from Charles and whispered, “I will speak to the press, and then Charles, I am not going to be the only Bennet missing out on BBC.”

And as the Sydney Morning Herald, including photographs, was published, Charles’s magnificent penis penetrated deep into Jane’s moist pussy. Thena s they fornicated with the energy that only the young can muster, passions reached boiling point, he whispered, “You seem tighter than your sister.”

Jane giggled wickedly, which had the effect of increasing the pressure on her clit from the slab of meat filling her, “Tightest Bennet in the whole damn town.”

“Well, no,” Charles replied, “I think you will find that your papa’s bottom is tighter.”

And with that, they were both overcome, first by giggles and then, given the remarkable snug fit of his meat in her quim, by bone-shattering orgasms, the strongest of both their lives.

Which only goes to show that Jane Austen had it right all along: Jane Bennet and Charles Bingley were made for each other.

Though Jane Austen was a tad over-optimistic about Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy; as you have seen, it was neither pride nor prejudice that meant they were always destined to be friends without benefits.