[novelistcasanova]

Just like each sand smuggler had fixed one woman for himself, two of them had chosen my closest friends.

One sand smuggler named Muthu had fixed Sathyavathi for himself.
Another named Balu had fixed Malliga.
Muthu was a broad, heavily built man with a thick neck, powerful shoulders, and dark, hairy arms. His face was rough and square, with small eyes that stayed fixed on whatever he wanted. From the very first day he saw Sathyavathi walking toward the river in her saree, those eyes locked onto her and did not move. He watched the way her body moved, the firm shape of her breasts under her blouse, the clean line of her waist, and the controlled way she carried herself. After that day none of the other smugglers ever touched her. Whenever Sathyavathi appeared on the path, only Muthu would put down whatever he was holding and walk straight toward her with the slow confidence of a man who already considered her his.

Balu was different in build but the same in intent. He was slightly taller than Muthu, leaner through the waist, but his arms and hands were still thick with strength. His face was harder, more closed, with a straight mouth that rarely smiled. He had claimed Malliga in the same silent, complete way. From the moment he first noticed her softer, fuller body and the warm, sensual way she walked, he treated her as already belonging to him. The other men stayed away from her without being told. When Malliga came down the path, only Balu stepped forward to take her.

At the beginning both of my friends tried to fight them with real resistance.
Sathyavathi, sharp-eyed and proud, pushed at Muthu’s broad chest with both hands the first several times he grabbed her. She twisted her shoulders, turned her face hard to the side when his mouth came near hers, and raised her voice clearly, telling him to leave her alone, that she was a married woman, that he had no right. Her body stayed rigid in his arms for as long as she could manage. She refused to simply accept his hands on her.
Malliga, though softer by nature, also fought. When Balu pulled her against him she struck at his arms and shoulders with her fists, tried to keep her saree tightly closed with one hand, and begged him in a shaking voice to stop. She told him she did not want his touch, that it was wrong, that he should find someone else. Her larger, heavier breasts pressed against his chest as she struggled, and she used whatever strength she had to create even a little space between their bodies.
It made no difference.

Both men were far too strong for them. Muthu would simply close his thick arms around Sathyavathi’s waist and the upper part of her back until her elbows were pinned and her struggles became small, useless movements against his body. He held her crushed against him, her firm breasts flattened on his chest, and took his time. He rubbed the hard shape of his cock against her lower stomach through his pants while she continued to push and turn her face away. When he decided to kiss her, he grabbed her jaw with one rough hand, forced her face up, and pressed his mouth onto hers, pushing his tongue inside while she made angry, muffled sounds of protest.

Balu handled Malliga with the same complete physical control. He locked one strong arm around her waist, pulled her full body tightly against his, and used his other hand to grip the back of her neck or her jaw. Her softer, heavier breasts were crushed against him. When she tried to twist away he simply followed her mouth and took the kiss he wanted, holding her in place until he had tasted her thoroughly. Her protests and her pushing only lasted as long as her arms still had strength. Balu had far more of it, and he used it without hesitation or any sign of effort.
Within days the pattern was set and clear to everyone who watched.
Sathyavathi belonged to Muthu on the river path.
Malliga belonged to Balu.

The two men treated them with the same open, daily ownership that the other smugglers showed their chosen women. They pulled them close whenever they wished. They hugged them tightly against their bodies. They forced kisses on their mouths. They lifted their sarees when they wanted to look or touch more. And they did all of it with the calm certainty that these two women were already theirs. Sathyavathi’s sharp resistance and Malliga’s softer begging both faded into the same exhausted understanding — fighting only left them breathless and defeated while the men still took exactly what they wanted.

The three of us — me, Sathyavathi, and Malliga — had each been fixed by a different sand smuggler.
Arjun had taken me.
Muthu had taken Sathyavathi.
Balu had taken Malliga.
And none of us were strong enough to change it. The river path that had once belonged to the women of the village now belonged to the three men who had claimed us, and every time we walked it we felt their ownership waiting for us under the trees.