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A Sicilian Tale

by Susan P. Blevins


Rosalia glared at Totonno as he put the finishing touches to the contraption that he was about to lock around her sex. They had been married for six glorious months of rampant sex, morning noon and night, but now he had to leave and serve his country in the military.

They lived in a village in Sicily, island of lemons, the lupara and the mafia, and most of the inhabitants of their village were related. Everyone had attended their church wedding, followed by a meal of good simple food and abundant wine, set out on tables among the olive trees, followed by dancing and good-natured laughter, and the two love birds who couldn’t keep their hands off one another. They had maintained their vow of prenuptial chastity, but after that hot wedding night, well, there was no restraining them.

And now they had to part. Totonno had been called on to perform his obligatory military service for the Italian state, and was about to go off to war in some far-flung part of the world for two years. When they found out, they clung to each other and wept.  They were beside themselves and vowed eternal love and faithfulness to one another.

But Totonno wasn’t going to take any chances. He was after all, Siculo, a Sicilian through and through, and that meant he wasn’t going to risk Rosalia playing around while he was gone. She was a gorgeous 21-year old, with a voluptuous, sensual body and a mouth that all the men in the village dreamed of in their unguarded moments of sexual fantasy. Totonno was a clever fellow, and very adept with his hands, so he had created a modern version  of a chastity belt. This may now have been the twenty-first century, but he had the soul of a knight from the thirteenth century, going off to the crusades and leaving his lady behind.

“You’re hurting me,” Rosalia cried out as he slipped the ingenious gadget up over her thighs, caressing her clitoris as he did so, causing her to moan with pleasure despite her fury at what he was doing to her.

“It’ll only be for two years tesoro, and it’ll be so much fun when I take it off again. Look at the pretty little key I made for it, which I’m going to keep on a chain around my neck the whole time I’m away. I’ll touch it and think I’m touching you.” He stroked her breasts and tweaked her nipples, making her cry out, then carried on with his monologue of justification for his actions.

“You’re far too precious to me to risk other men touching you or God forbid, having sex with you, and after all, you are known in the village as Rosalia la Sensualissima, and I can certainly agree with that name, you hot-blooded little quagliatella, you.” He often called her his little quail, and usually she liked it, but not today.

He gave her a long, passionate kiss, picked up his kit-bag and headed out of their cottage to join his regiment in Palermo, before flying off to war.

Almost a year passed, and the belt chafed Rosalia, making her cry with rage and self-pity on more than one occasion. Then one day she received a letter from the Department of Defense, telling her that her husband had gone missing in action. They could not tell her if he was alive or dead. She burst into tears when she read the letter, not so much because Totonno might be dead, but because she didn’t know what on earth she was going to do now to be free of her prison. They had not told any of their family members what he had done to her, because Totonno did not want to be accused of extreme jealousy, so who could she turn to? She decided there was no one she could confide in. If she told her best friend it would be all over the village by the following day. She would have to leave the island and take her chances on the mainland.

She told her family that she was going on a pilgrimage to Rome to see the Pope.  Instead, she took the train to Milan, as far away from Sicily as possible. Once there, she settled into a very cheap boarding-house near the main train station, and started asking around for a good locksmith. She wrote down a few names and visited a couple of them, without explaining why she needed their services, but it wasn’t until she went to check out the third locksmith that she knew she’d found the right one. He was young and handsome, with tanned skin, shockingly blue eyes and tousled, thick black hair.  In fact, he reminded her of the young men in her village. Shyly, she explained her predicament to him, which brought a twinkle to his eye.

“No problem,” he said quietly.  “Just lie on this bench and I’ll fetch my tools. I won’t hurt you, I promise.”  Nervously, she arranged herself on the bench, wondering at how she was about to expose herself to a complete stranger. But he soon cut her loose from her constraints and she wept with relief. She was so relieved, and grateful,  that, well, one thing led to another, her hot blooded nature guiding her into a passionate embrace with Luciano the locksmith. She stayed with him for a few breathless weeks, and wept when she said goodbye to return to Sicily. But truth be told, she was feeling homesick by now for the food and warmth of her island home, and the Milanese people were so cold, always complaining about having to carry the burden of the impoverished, irresponsible southerners.

She returned to her home, and the fragrance of lemon trees on the warm breeze welcomed her back, free at last of her bonds, and free to contemplate her future. She did not have to contemplate it for long though, because shortly after her return there was a knock on the door. She opened it, and to her surprise, and shock, there stood Totonno, wearing a lascivious grin on his face, expectantly waving the infamous key in front of her 
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