Lesbian Secret Love: The little room above the bookshop offers Devika Mishra a quiet place to finish her children’s book, but she never expects to fall for Tanirika Shukla, the woman who owns the shop below. In this lesbian secret love story, growing attraction clashes with family expectations, personal privacy, and the difficult question of how long love can remain hidden. Set in Chitrakoot, Uttar Pradesh, their relationship faces a turning point when Tanirika’s family plans to send her away to manage another shop.
The ceiling fan in my room above ‘Shukla & Sons Books’ clicked with every rotation, a metronome counting down my time in Chitrakoot. Outside, the July heat pressed against the windowpanes, but up here, with the old walls and the scent of aging paper seeping up from the shop below, it was a quiet, dusty sanctuary. My drafting table was a chaos of watercolour pans, inked character sketches for The Moon and the Mango Tree, and half-empty cups of chai.
I’d come to this small Uttar Pradesh town for inspiration, and found it, though not just in the ghats and the temples. I’d found it in the steady, grounding presence of Tanirika Shukla.
I heard the creak of the wooden staircase, a specific pattern of steps I’d learned to recognize. Two firm, one slightly hesitant where the third stair groaned. My stomach did a little flip. A moment later, she appeared in my open doorway, leaning against the frame.
Tanirika was, simply put, stunning. At thirty, she carried a quiet authority that made her seem older, and a warmth that made you forget it. She wore a simple, sage-green cotton kurta and white palazzo pants today, her long, dark hair tied in a loose braid over one shoulder. Her eyes were the rich brown of wet earth, and they missed nothing.
“Still hiding from the sun, Dev?” she asked, her voice a low, smooth alto.
“It’s not hiding, it’s strategic avoidance,” I said, swivelling on my stool. “Also, this peacock won’t colour himself.”
She came in, her sandals whispering on the floorboards. She smelled of sandalwood and the faint, clean scent of old books. She leaned over my shoulder to look at the illustration, her braid brushing my arm. A current went through me, simple and sharp.
“He looks judgemental,” she observed, a smile in her voice.
“He’s based on your uncle who always glares at me from the philosophy section.”
She laughed, a soft, real sound. “He glares at everyone. It’s his hobby.” She straightened up, but didn’t move away. Our arms were still touching. “I brought you something. You’ve been living on biscuits and chai.”
She placed a small tiffin box on the corner of my table. “Aloo parathas. My mum made extra.”
“You tell your mum I’m building a shrine for her in here,” I said, my heart doing that ridiculous thing again. It was more than the food. It was the casual, thoughtful care of it. The way she’d just… taken me in, a lost illustrator from Delhi, and made space for me in her world.
“She’d like that. She thinks you’re too thin.” Tanirika’s eyes scanned my face, then dropped to my lips for a fraction of a second before meeting my gaze again. That was new. A deliberate, slow-burning look that held a question. The air between us, thick with the afternoon heat, seemed to get heavier.
The first time I’d seen her, she’d been arguing with a distributor on the phone, her brow furrowed, one hand gesturing sharply. She’d caught me watching, ended the call, and offered me a tired smile that completely transformed her face. I’d stammered something about renting the room. Over weeks, she’d become my guide, taking me to the best spots to sketch, introducing me to the local chai-wallah who knew all the town’s stories, always with a respectful distance that lately had begun to feel like a tantalizing barrier.
We’d talk for hours in the shop after closing, the only light from the streetlamp filtering through the shelves. We talked about books, about her dream to modernize the shop without offending her father, about my fear that my art wasn’t good enough. The conversations were easy, but the silences were charged. A brush of hands when passing a book, knees accidentally touching under the small table in the back office, her fixing the collar of my shirt once when I’d come in dishevelled from the rain—each tiny contact was a spark I catalogued and replayed at night.
Now, in my room, that barrier felt thin. She was looking at the parathas, then back at me. “You should eat before they get cold.”
“I will.” I didn’t move. “Thank you, Tani.”
The nickname slipped out. I’d only ever used it in my head. Her eyes softened, and she took a small step closer, now well within my personal space. I could see the faint freckles across her nose, the slight pulse in her throat.
“You’re welcome, Devika.” She said my full name like a secret.
My hand, seemingly of its own accord, came up and touched the end of her braid. It was an intimate, daring move. Her breath hitched, just a tiny catch. I ran my fingers down the silken weave.
“Your hair is always so perfect,” I murmured, feeling foolish and brave.
“It’s a mess,” she whispered, but she leaned into the touch, her eyes closing briefly.
“It’s not.” I tugged gently on the braid, pulling her an inch closer. The question in the air was now a palpable thing. I saw the conflict in her face—the desire, warring with the caution that was her constant companion. The fear of her family, the shop, this small town’s watching eyes.
“Devika…” she started, a warning and a plea.
“I know,” I said, my thumb stroking her cheek. “I know.”
But instead of pulling away, she turned her face into my palm, kissing the centre of it. The sensation was electric, a direct line to my core. That was all the permission I needed.
I stood up, our bodies now aligned. I was taller, but she felt solid, real. I cupped her face with both hands. “Can I?” The words were barely audible.
She nodded, her eyes wide, dark pools of yes.
The first kiss was soft, a tentative exploration. Her lips were fuller than they looked, and she tasted of mint and monsoon air. It was sweet, achingly so. Then she made a small sound in the back of her throat, a surrender, and her hands came up to grip my waist. The kiss deepened.
It wasn’t graceful. Our noses bumped. I stumbled back against the drafting table, sending a pencil rolling. We laughed, breathless, against each other’s mouths, and then we were kissing again, hungrier this time. My hands were in her hair, unraveling the braid. Hers were under my shirt, her palms hot on the skin of my back, pulling me closer until not a sliver of light could pass between us.
We broke apart, foreheads touching, breathing ragged. Her kurta was wrinkled, my own t-shirt askew. The world had narrowed to this room, the clicking fan, the feel of her.
“We shouldn’t…” she breathed, but her hands were sliding down to my ass, squeezing.
“We really shouldn’t,” I agreed, and captured her mouth again, walking her backwards towards my narrow bed.
We fell onto it in a tangle of limbs. The cot protested with a squeak. We froze, listening. The shop below was silent. We looked at each other and giggled, the tension momentarily broken by sheer adolescent panic.
“Your family…” I whispered.
“At the market,” she said, and then she was on top of me, her weight a delicious anchor. She looked down, her hair forming a curtain around our faces. “I’ve wanted this. For so long.”
“Me too.” I pulled her down for another kiss, my hands roaming up her sides. Through the thin cotton of her kurta, I could feel the curve of her waist, the swell of her ribs. I slid my hands up further, cupping her breasts. They were fuller than I’d imagined, perfect handfuls. She gasped into my mouth as my thumbs brushed over her nipples, feeling them harden instantly against the fabric.
She sat up, straddling me, and pulled her kurta over her head in one swift motion. She wasn’t wearing a choli underneath, just a simple, lace-edged white bra. My mouth went dry. Her skin was the colour of warm honey, smooth and flawless. Her breasts were magnificent, the cleavage deep, the shape utterly feminine. I reached for her, but she caught my wrists.
“My turn,” she said, her voice husky.
She pulled my t-shirt off, then stared. I’m slender, with smaller breasts, but what I lack in curves I make up for in a boldness that surprised even me sometimes. I lay there, letting her look, watching her eyes darken with desire. She leaned down and kissed the hollow of my throat, then lower, her mouth closing over one nipple through my bra. The sensation, even through the lace, was intense. I arched off the bed with a sharp cry.
“Shhh,” she murmured, but she was smiling against my skin. She unhooked my bra with practised ease and tossed it aside. Her mouth was on me again, this time skin to skin. She licked, then sucked, gently at first, then with more pressure, her tongue flicking over the peak. Her hand was on my other breast, rolling the nipple between her forefinger and thumb, pulling and teasing. The dual sensations were overwhelming, a direct, throbbing connection between my breasts and my pussy, which was already wet and aching.
“Tani… please…” I begged, not even sure what I was asking for.
She understood. She kissed her way down my stomach, her hands pushing my shorts and underwear down my hips in one movement. The cool air hit my wetness, and I shuddered. She knelt between my legs, pushing them apart. She just looked for a moment, her gaze hot and heavy on me. I felt exposed, utterly vulnerable, and more turned on than I’d ever been.
“You’re so beautiful,” she whispered, and then she lowered her head.
Her tongue touched me first, a flat, slow lick from my opening up to my clit. I cried out, my hands fisting in the bedsheet. She did it again, and again, establishing a rhythm that had me bucking against her mouth. Then she zeroed in on my clit, sucking it gently into her mouth, flicking it with the tip of her tongue. It was maddening, exquisite torture. I was babbling, a stream of “oh god” and “yes there” and “please don’t stop.”
She didn’t stop. She added a finger, sliding one, then two inside me with ease. I was so wet, so ready. She curled her fingers, finding a spot inside that made me see white behind my eyelids. She fucked me with her fingers, deep and steady, while her mouth worked my clit. The pressure built, a coil tightening low in my belly. My thighs were shaking. I was close, so close.
“Come for me, Devika,” she growled against me, and the sound of her voice, the command in it, pushed me over the edge.
The orgasm ripped through me, wave after wave of pure, mindless pleasure. I arched off the bed, a strangled scream caught in my throat as I convulsed around her fingers. She kept licking, gently now, drawing out every last shudder until I collapsed, boneless and gasping.
She crawled back up my body, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, a look of pure, smug satisfaction on her face. She kissed me, and I could taste myself on her lips, salty and musky. It was the most erotic thing I’d ever experienced.
“My turn,” I panted, pushing her onto her back.
I worshipped her body. I kissed every inch of her stomach, the softness of her hips. I took her breasts in my hands, finally feeling their full weight. I licked and sucked her nipples, biting down gently until she moaned, her back bowing off the bed. I used my fingers to tease them, pinching and rolling, watching her face contort in pleasure.
I moved lower, kissing her inner thighs, making her squirm. When I finally put my mouth on her, she was already soaked. Her pussy was beautiful, lush. I licked her like she’d licked me, learning what made her gasp, what made her hips jerk. I slid two fingers inside her, and she was so tight, so hot. I found her rhythm, fucking her with my hand while my tongue circled her clit.
“Faster… yes, just like that,” she chanted, her hands in my hair, not guiding, just holding on.
I added a third finger, stretching her, and she cried out, her walls clamping down on me. I could feel her getting closer, her muscles tensing. I sucked her clit hard, and fucked her deep with my fingers, and that was all it took. She came with a loud, raw cry, her whole body shaking, her juices coating my hand and chin. I drank her in, licking her through it until she pushed my head away, oversensitive.
We lay side by side, sweaty and spent, trying to catch our breath. The fan clicked above us. I turned my head to look at her. Her eyes were closed, a small smile on her lips.
“That was…” I started.
“Yeah,” she finished. She opened her eyes and looked at me. The fear was back, lurking behind the sated glow. “Devika… we have to be careful. My father… if he knew…”
“I know,” I said, the post-orgasm bliss cooling into a familiar ache. “I’m not a secret, Tani. I can’t be.”
“I’m not asking you to be a secret,” she said, propping herself up on an elbow. “I’m asking for time. The shop… it’s everything to my family. To me. I’m working on it. On them.”
I wanted to believe her. I reached out and traced the line of her jaw. “Okay. Time.”
She leaned in and kissed me, a soft, promising kiss. “Now,” she said, her voice dropping back into that husky register. “Where were we?”
She reached for the small drawer in my bedside table, where she’d seen me stash a few “supplies” from a discreet online order. She pulled out the strap-on harness and the smooth, silicone dildo. My heart hammered against my ribs.
“You want to?” she asked, holding it up.
I nodded, wordless.
I helped her put the harness on me, adjusting the straps over my hips. The weight of the dildo felt foreign, powerful. She looked at me, her eyes roaming over my now partially clothed form with the toy jutting out. The look of sheer want on her face was intoxicating.
“How do you want me?” she asked, her voice a whisper.
“On your back,” I said. “I want to see you.”
She lay back, spreading her legs, opening herself to me. I knelt between them, the tip of the dildo pressing against her wet entrance. I leaned over her, bracing myself on my arms, and kissed her deeply.
“Look at me,” I murmured against her lips.
She opened her eyes. I pushed forward.
The feeling of entering her, even with this proxy, was profound. She was so tight, so warm, her body welcoming me inch by inch. She gasped, her nails digging into my shoulders. I slid all the way in, until our bodies were flush. We stayed like that, joined, breathing each other’s air.
Then I began to move. Slowly at first, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in. Her eyes never left mine. The intimacy was staggering, more than the physical act. This was trust, vulnerability, a giving and taking that went beyond flesh.
“Harder,” she pleaded, wrapping her legs around my waist, locking her ankles at the small of my back.
I obeyed, picking up the pace, driving into her with deep, firm strokes. The bed rocked against the wall with a rhythmic thump. We didn’t care anymore. The world was this room, this connection. She met every thrust, her hips rising off the bed. The sounds she made were raw, unfiltered—grunts, moans, my name chanted like a prayer.
I could feel my own climax building again, a pressure coiling low from the base of the toy and the friction against my own clit through the harness. I reached between us, rubbing her clit in tight circles with my thumb as I fucked her.
“I’m gonna come,” she warned, her voice breaking.
“Come for me,” I gritted out, my own breath coming in ragged gasps.
She shattered, her body seizing, her pussy clamping down on the dildo in rhythmic pulses. The sight and feel of her orgasm tipped me over the edge. My own climax crashed over me, a deep, rolling wave that had me crying out, my thrusts becoming erratic as I rode it out against her.
I collapsed on top of her, spent, the harness an awkward lump between us. She held me, her arms strong around me, her hands stroking my sweat-damp back. We lay like that for a long time, listening to our heartbeats slow.
Eventually, I shifted off her, disposing of the toy. We cleaned up with a towel in a comfortable, quiet silence. We dressed slowly, our movements languid. She picked up her kurta, then just held it, looking at me.
“They want to send me to Allahabad,” she said quietly, not looking at me. “To manage the new branch. Papa told me this morning.”
The words landed like a physical blow. All the warmth drained from the room. “When?”
“End of the month.”
Three weeks. I stared at her, the aftermath of our passion freezing into a hard, cold lump in my chest. “And what did you say?”
“I said I’d think about it.” She finally met my gaze. The fear was gone, replaced by a weary resolve. “But I’m not going.”
“Tani…”
“No.” She came to me, took my face in her hands. “I’m not going to lose this. Lose you. I’ll talk to him. I’ll make him understand. It will be a mess, and it will be hard, but… I choose this. I choose you.”
Tears pricked my eyes. It was what I wanted to hear, but the realist in me feared the cost. “The shop…”
“Will still be here. I’ll find a way.” She kissed me, a soft, sealing kiss. “No more secrets. Just… give me a few days to figure out how to tell him.”
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. I believed her. Maybe foolishly, but I did. Because what we’d just shared wasn’t just sex. It was a claiming, a promise written on our skin.
She left as the sun began to set, slipping down the creaky stairs. I stood at the window, watching her cross the quiet street below, her figure growing smaller. The room still held her scent, the imprint of her body on my sheets. The future was a terrifying question mark, but for the first time, it felt like we might be writing the answer together. I turned back to my drafting table, to the judgemental peacock. I picked up my brush. I had a story to finish, and now, perhaps, a new one to begin.