-------------------------------------------------------------
The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.
The following story is a work of fiction meant for entertainment purposes only. It depicts nonconsensual sexual acts between adults. It is in no way meant to be understood as an endorsement of nonconsensual sex in real life. Any similarities of the characters in the story to real people are purely coincidental.
-------------------------------------------------------------
- This story is part of the Ravished in a Flash 2.0 Tournament
- It competes against The Pyramid of Atum Ra in the Final match
- Theme: There Can Be Only One
-------------------------------------------------------------
The Mondina
Province of Pavia, Italy
26 May 1938—Year XVI of the Fascist Era
My beat-up bicycle rattles as I slowly pedal barefoot along the dirt road running through the Lomellina rice fields. The evening comes on—I’d like to hurry up, but I’m beat.
The monda, the rice-weeding time, reigns from Vercellese to Molinella. Each and every day we the mondine wade through the green sea of the rice paddies, glaring golden in the hot sun. Knee-deep in mud, the straw hat the size of a wheel on my head, I pick weeds for eight hours straight so that rice can grow. There’s a drought this year, and every shoot counts.
It’s my third season in the Lomellina, and my fingers are nimble. I get thirteen lire a day, but I have a brother and a sister back home. Today I went to old Maria’s farm to earn a little more—the ancient biddy is as blind as a bat, and for the second year in a row I did her cockerels.
I caponize them, squawking, flapping bastards, never to fight again. I’m pretty handy with the tools—Dottore Inzaghi saw me once fixing the cockerels and told me with a laugh that I should’ve been a surgeon. Ha, if only I could read…
In this Italy, I can do back-breaking work for little pay, marry and have children. That’s what they want from me.
As for me, I want another Italy.
Behind me, the car is honking, and I hug the edge of the road. The sleek blue Fiat 1500 that belongs to Signor Bossi, who manages our estate on behalf of the Marchese di Roncaglia, overtakes me.
The Fiat screeches to halt in front of me, blocking my way, and I stop with a curse, my rough soles scraping along the dusty road. It’s not Signor Bossi. It’s Carlo.
Carlo is a tall, brawny Blackshirt, shaven-headed like Il Duce, from the among the worst of the bad lot. He was in Abyssinia and Spain with the ‘1 February’ Division. He and his Fascist friends like to hang out at Signor Bossi’s when they’re not making our lives miserable.
‘Hey you! Libe!’ Carlo gets out of the car.
‘It’s Libera,’ I can’t help myself. I don’t want people like him calling me other than by my full name. Truth be told, I don’t want them calling me at all.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Carlo gets in my face. With a few grappas in him, Carlo is wild. ‘Get off the cycle, now! I know it was you, you dirty Red slut, who scratched the hammer and sickle on the house wall last Sunday!’
‘That's a lie!’ I brazen it out. There can be only one explanation. Someone’s tattled on me, just like that!
I just downed my Sunday ration of wine and then Pina, Zola and me split Zola’s bottle of Marsala three ways… Signor Bossi’s house could stand some redecorating.
‘Look, I’m watching your bunch of fratchety Red bitches! And you, Libe Cremonesi, the worst of them all! But this time you’re going to the island, you silly cunt, I swear to God!’
My innards turn to icy water. With my father and my brother Garibaldi confined on the island camps, my brother Spartaco in French exile, it’s easy for Carlo and Signor Bossi to deport me.
‘Carlo, I have a brother and a sister…’ I say, my heart in my throat. I look around in despair, but there’s just a half-dozen of mondine in the distant field—must be Comolli’s team working overtime.
‘As you make your bed, so you must lie, bitch! But if you cooperate,’ Carlo leers, ‘maybe I’ll go easy on you.’
My mind races. I’d have to open my legs for him. I know that’s my only chance…
It wasn’t cockerels I should’ve been fixing today.
I push my bicycle at him and bolt instead.
‘Porca Madonna!’
He’s fast for a drunk. His thick fingers clutching at my wrist, Carlo spins me to face him and strikes me across the face—hard.
‘Aah!’ I taste blood.
‘Come on!’ Carlo growls. ‘Fucking means nothing to you! You sluts have no real notion of sin, of what is holy…’
‘Fuck you!’ I’m not a virgin, but this is too much.
‘Want some more?’ he shakes his meaty fist in front of my eyes. ‘Get in the back seat!’
I take off my hat and put it on the roof of the Fiat. The car door squeaks open, and he pushes me inside. Carlo’s eyes gleam as he watches me strip.
‘Not bad,’ he says, getting inside and roughly palming my titties, his fingers digging into my taut flesh. I bite my tongue, determined to see this through.
‘Get on your back.’
I lie down, my legs splayed open. Carlo fumbles with his trousers, pulling out his cock. With a grunt, he shoves it inside me, driving deep with a single brutal thrust. I cry out, my body tensing up. Heedless of my discomfort, Carlo begins to pump in and out of me. Tears pricking at the corners of my eyes, I lie under him. My body, acting as nature intended, gives up a little moisture just to help me make it through...
Carlo curses as he slips out of me.
‘You done?’ I spit through clenched teeth.
‘I’m nowhere near done with you yet, bitch!’ Carlo hauls my legs up and over his shoulders, folding me nearly in half before slamming into me again. I groan as Carlo pounds me with abandon. At last his rhythm falters, and then he spends deep inside me.
While the Fascist bastard revels in his vile bliss, I stretch my left leg up high to leave an imprint of my dirty foot on the inside of the Fiat’s roof. He’s pinning my right leg with his weight, so it’s a pity there can be only one.
Signor Bossi would be twice as angry.
