[novelistcasanova]

Just like the other sand smugglers had fixed one woman each for themselves, there was one ugly sand smuggler named Arjun who had fixed me for him.

Arjun was darker and rougher-looking than the rest. His face was broad and hard, with small deep-set eyes, a flat nose, and a thick wide mouth. His body was heavy and powerful from years of hard labour. He almost always worked shirtless, his dark chest, thick shoulders and strong arms left completely bare under the sun. He wore only black shorts that sat low on his hips. His whole body carried a strong, stale smell of dried sweat, river mud, and the cheap tobacco he chewed. The smell clung to his skin and only grew heavier under the heat. From the very first day he saw me walking toward the river, his eyes stayed on me longer than on any other woman. After that he made it clear without any words that I belonged to him alone. The other smugglers never came near me. Whenever I appeared on the path, only Arjun would put down his tool and walk straight toward me.
At first he only enjoyed hugging me and kissing my face.

Whenever he caught me on the river path, he would reach out with one thick hand, grab my wrist firmly, and pull me hard against his bare body. The heat of his shirtless chest hit me first, along with the strong stink of his sweat. My breasts pressed flat against his dark, sweaty, foul-smelling skin. His heavy arms locked around my waist and the upper part of my back like iron, crushing me against him so tightly that I could barely breathe. The smell of his body filled my nose — thick, sour, and inescapable. I could feel every part of him — the hard muscles of his chest, the heat of his stomach, and the thick, growing shape of his cock pushing strongly against my lower stomach through his black shorts and my saree. He held me there and slowly moved his hips, rubbing that hard length against me in deliberate circles while I pushed at his bare, sweaty shoulders and told him to release me.
“Let me go… don’t do this…” I would say, turning my face away from the stink of his skin.

He never listened. He only tightened his arms more and continued rubbing himself against me, breathing heavily near my ear, the foul smell of his mouth mixing with the smell of his body as he clearly enjoyed the feel of my full body trapped against his naked chest.

Then the kissing would begin.
Arjun loved to kiss me all over my face. He would bring one rough hand up, grab the back of my head, and hold it firmly so I could not turn away. His thick mouth would first press against my cheek, lingering there, lips open and wet. The smell of his mouth was filthy — a mix of old tobacco, rotting teeth, and something sour that made my stomach turn. Then he would move across to my other cheek, kissing slowly, almost tasting the skin, leaving the same foul smell on every place his mouth touched. He kissed my forehead, the bridge of my nose, the soft place near my ear, and the line of my jaw. Each kiss was heavy, greedy, and carried that disgusting smell. When I tried to twist my head to the side, his hand on the back of my head simply followed and forced my face back toward him.

Finally he would take my mouth.
He pressed his thick, foul-smelling lips hard against mine and pushed his tongue inside at once. The taste and smell filled my mouth immediately — bitter, sour, and unclean. He licked inside my mouth, slow and thorough, while his other arm kept my body crushed against his bare, stinking chest and his cock continued to rub against my stomach through the black shorts. I tried to pull my head back. I tried to close my lips. He only held me tighter and kissed me more deeply, making low sounds of pleasure in his throat as he enjoyed my mouth, forcing me to breathe in the filthy smell of his breath with every second.
“Stay still…” he would mutter against my lips between kisses, his voice rough and heavy, the foul smell of his mouth washing over my face.
“You belong to me now.”
I protested every time. I pushed against the hard, sweaty, stinking muscles of his shirtless chest. I turned my face as much as his strong hand allowed. I told him to stop, to leave me alone, that I was a married woman. But Arjun was much stronger, and he clearly took great enjoyment from both the long tight hug and the slow kissing of my face. He took his time. He would spend many minutes just holding me against his bare, foul-smelling body, rubbing his hard cock against me, and covering my cheeks, my neck, and my mouth with his thick, wet, filthy kisses before he finally loosened his arms.
Only when he was fully satisfied would he release me.

He would step back, look at my disordered saree and my flushed face with open ownership, and then return to his work as if nothing unusual had happened. I would walk home with the heat and stink of his shirtless chest still clinging to my breasts, the foul wetness of his kisses still on my face and neck, and the clear knowledge that on the river path I no longer belonged to myself.
From that time onward, everyone understood.

The other women had been claimed by the other smugglers. I had been claimed by Arjun. And every time he pulled me against his bare, dark, stinking body and kissed me all over my face with his filthy mouth, he made sure I felt exactly who I belonged to.
But I already knew it would not end with only hugs and kisses.
The other smugglers had started taking their women into the bushes.
It was only a matter of time before Arjun decided to do the same with me.


The day my husband tried to fight Arjun, everything became worse.
Word of what Arjun was doing to me on the river path had finally reached home. That evening my husband came down to the river with a thick stick in his hand and anger burning in his eyes. He walked straight up to where Arjun was standing shirtless near the trucks, black shorts hanging low on his hips, the usual stale smell of sweat rising from his dark body.
“You stay away from my wife,” my husband said, his voice shaking with rage.
“If you touch Sudha again, I will—”
He never finished the sentence.
Arjun moved faster than anyone expected. His thick fist smashed into my husband’s face with a heavy, wet sound. My husband staggered back. Before he could raise the stick, Arjun hit him again — once in the stomach, once on the side of the head. My husband fell to his knees. Arjun grabbed him by the hair, yanked his head up, and punched him full in the mouth. Blood sprayed from my husband’s lips. Then Arjun threw him onto the ground and began kicking him with his hard bare feet — in the ribs, in the stomach, in the thighs — while my husband curled up and tried to protect his head.
“Rajesh…!” I screamed, running forward.
“Please stop… don’t hurt him…!”
Arjun did not even look at me. He kept beating my husband with the same calm, heavy violence he used for everything else. When my husband stopped moving, Arjun finally stepped back, breathing hard, sweat shining on his shirtless chest. My husband lay on the red earth, face swollen, blood running from his nose and mouth, one eye already closing. He tried to get up once and fell back down with a broken sound of pain.
I dropped to my knees beside him, crying, trying to lift his head into my lap.
Arjun stood over both of us, the foul smell of his body thick in the air. He looked down at me with those small, hard eyes and spoke in his rough voice.
“Next time your husband comes near me, I will break his legs.”
He pointed at my husband’s bleeding face.
“Tell Rajesh this is the only warning. You belong to me on this path. He stays out of it.”
I could only hold my husband’s head and cry. Some of the other village men had come closer when the beating started, but none of them stepped forward. They had already seen what happened to the men who tried to fight the smugglers. They stood at a distance, helpless, just like me.
Two of the men finally helped me lift my husband and carry him home. That night I cleaned the blood from his face, wrapped his bruised ribs, and sat beside him while he drifted in and out of painful sleep. He did not speak much. When he did, his voice was low and defeated.
“I couldn’t protect you,” he whispered once.
“I’m sorry, Sudha.”
I held his hand and said nothing. There was nothing left to say.