Lesbian Romance – The melody stopped years ago, but neither woman ever forgot how it began. When sound engineer Junali Bora returns to Majuli, Assam, to record traditional folk music, she comes face-to-face with Mrinmoyee Deka, the musician she once lost through a painful misunderstanding. Reconstructing their unfinished song forces them to confront the words they never said and the feelings they never resolved. As their renewed closeness leads to a consensual intimate encounter, Junali receives a permanent job offer outside Assam. Now they must decide whether their second chance deserves a different ending.
The monsoon air in Majuli was thick enough to drink, heavy with the scent of wet earth and blooming kopou phool. I wiped the sweat from my neck, my fingers leaving trails on my skin as I fiddled with a stubborn XLR cable behind the makeshift stage at the riverside cultural centre. The Brahmaputra churned, a vast, muddy giant just beyond the bamboo groves, its roar a constant bass note under the rehearsals for the festival.
“The gain on the dhol is going to clip if we don’t pad it,” a voice said behind me. A voice that hit me square in the chest, a familiar melody I hadn’t heard in eight years.
I turned, and there she was. Junali Bora. She was leaning against a bamboo pillar, arms crossed. Time had been kind. The girl I remembered, all sharp angles and nervous energy, had softened into a woman. Her black hair, once a wild mane, was now cut in a sharp, chin-length bob that highlighted the elegant line of her jaw and her deep, observant eyes. She wore simple, practical clothes—dark jeans and a grey t-shirt that read ‘Soundcheck’ in faded letters—but they clung to her in a way that was entirely distracting. The curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts under the soft cotton. She had a small, silver jhumka in one ear, catching the diffuse light.
“Junali,” I said, my voice coming out rough. “They said the sound engineer was from Guwahati. They didn’t say it was you.”
A faint, wry smile touched her lips. “Surprise, Mrin. I go where the work is. And this festival… it’s a good gig.” Her eyes travelled over me, and I felt it like a physical touch. I knew what she saw: the same Mrinmoyee Deka, maybe a little taller, my own curves more pronounced now, my long hair a tangled mess from the humidity. I’d thrown a red and blue gamusa over my shoulder, more out of habit than need.
The silence stretched, filled with everything we’d never said. The last time, we were just kids in a college music room in Tezpur, our heads bent over a single notebook, composing a song we never finished. A stupid argument over a misplaced chord sheet, amplified by pride and youth, and she’d left for Delhi. I’d stayed, nursing my folk songs and my bruised heart.
“You look good,” she finally said, pushing off the pillar and walking towards the mixing desk. Her scent drifted past me—lemongrass soap and something uniquely her, a warm, clean smell.
“You too,” I managed. “So, the dhol?”
We fell into work. It was easier than talking about us. Our hands brushed as we both reached for the same fader. A jolt, electric and immediate, shot up my arm. I pulled back, pretending to check a phantom connection. I caught her watching me, her dark eyes unreadable.
Later, during a break, we sat on the steps leading down to the river. I strummed my tokari, the notes bleeding into the humid air.
“Do you remember that tune?” I asked softly, not looking at her. “The one we were working on? ‘Xuwoni rati, xuwoni maya…’”
I heard her sharp intake of breath. “The lonely night, the lonely love,” she finished the line, her voice barely a whisper. “I never forgot it.”
I risked a glance. She was staring at the river, her profile etched with a sadness that mirrored my own. “Why did you leave, Junu?” The old nickname slipped out.
She turned to me, her eyes glistening. “You told me my arrangements were drowning the soul of the folk tunes. You said I didn’t understand, that I was just a tech person.”
I winced. “I was an arrogant idiot. I was scared. Scared that you… that you understood it too well. That you understood me too well.” I plucked a nervous chord. “I thought you were going to take the song and leave me behind.”
She shook her head, a slow, disbelieving movement. “All this time, I thought you saw me as… ancillary. Just the sound girl. I left because my heart couldn’t take being near you and feeling so invisible.”
The confession hung between us, raw and tender. My throat tightened. “You were never invisible to me, Junali. Not for a second.”
The festival preparations became a dance. A dance of near-misses and loaded glances. I’d catch her staring at my lips when I sang, her own parting slightly. During a lunch break, she reached across me for the salt, her forearm pressing against my bare arm, the heat of her skin searing into mine. We both froze, the air crackling.
One evening, as a storm brewed over the Brahmaputra, we were alone in the recording shack, a small bamboo hut filled with gear. We’d been trying to lay down a scratch track of our unfinished song. The electricity flickered, and the single bulb died, plunging us into a deep, velvety blue-grey darkness, punctuated by lightning flashes.
“Shit,” she muttered, her voice close in the dark.
“It’s okay,” I said. I could hear her breathing. Smell her lemongrass scent, stronger now. My eyes adjusted. She was just a silhouette against the window, backlit by a flash of lightning that illuminated the elegant column of her neck, the slope of her shoulders.
“Mrin,” she said, her voice low.
“Yeah?”
“I’m tired of pretending I don’t remember how you smell. Or the way you bite your lower lip when you’re concentrating.”
Her words were a direct hit. My heart hammered against my ribs. “What else do you remember?”
Another lightning flash. I saw her take a step towards me. “I remember wanting to trace the pattern of the gamusa on your skin. I remember wondering if your hair was as soft as it looked.”
I couldn’t breathe. “Why didn’t you?”
“You were… untouchable. The brilliant Mrinmoyee Deka. And I was just—”
I closed the distance between us. My hand found her face in the dark, my fingertips tracing her jaw, her cheekbone. “You were everything,” I breathed. “You are everything.”
And then her lips were on mine.
It wasn’t gentle. It was eight years of longing poured into a single, desperate point of contact. Her mouth was hot and insistent, and I met her with equal hunger. My hands tangled in her short hair, pulling her closer. Her arms wrapped around my waist, her body flush against mine. I could feel the firm press of her breasts against mine, the heat of her stomach. She tasted of sweet tea and mint and Junali.
We stumbled back against the mixing desk, knobs digging into my back. I didn’t care. My hands slid under her t-shirt, exploring the smooth, warm skin of her back. She gasped into my mouth, her own hands fumbling with the knot of my gamusa, letting it fall before sliding my mekhela skirt down over my hips. The cool air hit my skin, followed immediately by the scorching heat of her palms on my bare waist.
“Wait,” I panted, breaking the kiss. “Not here. My place. It’s close.”
She nodded, her forehead resting against mine, her breath coming in ragged bursts. “Okay. Yes.”
Hand in hand, we ran through the lashing rain, laughing like maniacs, soaked to the skin in seconds. My little cottage on the edge of the paddy fields was dark and quiet. We fell through the door, a tangle of wet limbs and frantic kisses, dripping onto the woven bamboo floor.
“Let me see you,” Junali whispered, her voice husky. She peeled my soaked blouse away, her eyes dark with desire. Her gaze travelled over my body—my full breasts, my nipples already hard and pebbled from the cold and the need, the curve of my stomach, the thatch of dark hair between my thighs. “You’re so beautiful, Mrin. Fuck, you’re beautiful.”
I reached for her, pulling her wet t-shirt over her head. Her bra was simple, white cotton. I unhooked it, letting it fall. Her breasts were perfect, a generous handful, with large, dark areolas and nipples that stood taut. I couldn’t resist. I bent my head and took one into my mouth, licking and sucking, grazing it gently with my teeth.
She cried out, her head falling back. “Oh, god…”
I switched to the other, my hand cupping and kneading the first breast, rolling her nipple between my thumb and forefinger. She was panting, her hands clutching my shoulders. I led her to the bed, a simple mattress on the floor, and pushed her down gently. I knelt over her, raining kisses down her stomach, my tongue dipping into her navel. I hooked my fingers into the waistband of her jeans and panties, pulling them down in one slow, deliberate motion.
Her pussy was beautiful. A neat, dark triangle of curls, her lips already glistening with her wetness. The smell of her, musky and sweet, made my mouth water. I looked up, meeting her eyes. She was propped on her elbows, watching me, her expression a mix of vulnerability and raw want.
“Please,” she whispered.
That was all I needed.
I lowered my head and kissed her inner thigh, making her jump. I licked a slow, torturous path upwards until my tongue found her core. I didn’t go straight for her clit. I teased. I licked her outer lips, kissed her opening, buried my face in her warmth, inhaling her scent. She was writhing, her hips lifting off the bed.
“Mrin… please, I need…”
I finally let my tongue find her clit, a hard little bud. I circled it, flicked it, then sucked it gently into my mouth.
She screamed. Her hands flew to my head, not pushing me away, but holding me there, her fingers threading through my wet hair. “Yes! Just like that… oh fuck…”
I ate her like a woman starving. I slid two fingers inside her, curling them, finding that spongy spot inside her that made her back arch off the bed. Her cunt was tight and hot and so fucking wet, clenching around my fingers. I fucked her with my hand, my tongue never leaving her clit, building her rhythm, feeling her muscles start to tighten and flutter.
“I’m gonna come… Mrin, I’m gonna…”
Her orgasm hit her like a tidal wave. Her whole body seized, a ragged, beautiful cry tearing from her throat as she ground herself against my face, her juices coating my chin. I rode it out with her, gentling my touch until she collapsed back onto the bed, trembling.
I crawled up her body, kissing my way up her stomach, between her breasts, finally claiming her mouth again. She could taste herself on my lips, and she moaned into the kiss, her hands roaming my body hungrily.
“My turn,” she growled, flipping us over with a strength that surprised me. Now she was on top, her thighs straddling my hips. Her eyes were blazing. She kissed me deeply, then moved down, her mouth and hands everywhere. She paid the same detailed attention to my breasts, sucking my nipples deep into her mouth, biting them just enough to make me gasp, before soothing them with her tongue.
She moved lower, her breath hot on my stomach. She pushed my thighs apart, settling between them. The first touch of her tongue on my clit made me cry out. She was less patient than I had been, her hunger evident. She licked and sucked my pussy with a focused intensity that had me seeing stars within minutes. She slid two fingers inside me, fucking me hard and deep while her tongue worked my clit.
“You taste so good,” she mumbled against me, the vibration pushing me closer to the edge. “So fucking good.”
I was babbling, a mix of Assamese endearments and filthy English. “There, Junu, right there… don’t stop… moi tumak bhal pau…”
My orgasm built, a coil of pure heat tightening low in my belly until it snapped. I came with a shout, my body bowing off the bed, my cunt clenching rhythmically around her fingers. She kept licking, gentler now, drawing out every last shudder.
As I came down, boneless and spent, she crawled back up and gathered me into her arms. We lay like that for a long time, skin to skin, listening to the rain on the tin roof, our hearts slowing to the same rhythm.
“I have a strap-on,” I murmured into her hair, after a while. “In the trunk. If… if you want.”
She lifted her head, a slow, wicked smile spreading across her face. “Yeah? Show me.”
I got up, my legs still shaky, and rummaged in an old wooden chest. I pulled out the harness, a simple black leather thing, and the dildo, a realistic, flesh-coloured silicone. Her eyes darkened as she watched me step into the harness, tightening the straps. I felt powerful, desired, a new kind of heat pooling inside me.
“Come here,” she said, lying back on the bed, her legs spread in invitation. She was so open, so trusting. I knelt between her thighs, the head of the dildo nudging her wet, swollen opening. I leaned over her, bracing myself on my arms, and kissed her deeply.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” I whispered.
“Just fuck me, Mrin,” she breathed, her eyes locked on mine. “Make love to me.”
I pushed in, slowly, giving