Whispers of the Past - 1
Being with Nisha. One more time.
A Workplace Donation, was my first ever story here at After a Good Date. This story has many references to it, so, if you haven’t read that one, yet, do give it a read!
This happened in early May. It’s about Nisha, my curvy work colleague, who many years back, came to me with an unusual proposal — she wanted me to impregnate her. We had been friends for a long time, and she was married at the time. We fucked for months, till she got what she wanted. After that, life happened. The lockdown slowly opened up, and she moved away from the city, and eventually changed her jobs. I have talked about Nisha now and then, any many of my posts. I have not written anything much about her since Workplace Donation, because, well, nothing had happened.
After a lot of back and forth, we finally met last month.
This will be a four part story. I will publish the first two parts and some of the third part, entirely free, here on After a Good Date. The last part, however, is contained only in the book. If you have read my previous stories, and like what you read, then, I’d recommend reading the story from the book. You won’t have to wait for the free chapter previews to come.
1
Nisha, was the first girl I had wrote about here at After a Good Date. In fact, A Workplace Donation was my first post here. It’s a short and sweet post, from a time when I had just learning to write about fucking.
Since the events of A Workplace Donation, Nisha and her husband, Adish, have moved away from the city, their blissful life, plastered all over the social media. Nisha is a mother now, the mother of my child, someone whom, I have never met. I understand it takes more than a few drops of cum, to be a father.
A Workplace Donation
In the three years since, Nisha and I have talked less and less. At first it was the pandemic, then the pregnancy, and then it was the toddler. Our conversations would often be in bursts. She would send me six or seven messages to my, “What’s up” and then vanish for the entire day, only to reply with a non-message. It was only later that she told me that she deletes our messages, immediately after texting me.
“But, I hardly write anything, that can be of trouble,” I had replied when I came to know about this.
“Yes, you don’t. But I do. And if your chatbox is around, I would keep texting you, and you know it can get complicated if Adish comes to know about you,” she had said.
It was just trivial chit-chat on our texts. Yet, the undercurrent of our past, our secret, was always there, lurking beneath the surface.
We live different lives, me and Nisha. Me, a philandering guy, whose mind is occupied with two things — sex and writing about sex. There’s work of course, but I had long given up on the ambition of becoming a CEO by 35. Everything else, pretty much stays on auto-pilot. My only stress is that I am supposed to cut down on my drinking and smoking. And of course, to find women who aren’t simply easy lays, but women, who bring to bed more than just their bodies.
Nisha, on the other hand, has to juggle between her work, being a mother to a three-year-old, being a wife, and being a daughter-in-law. I wish I knew more about her, but its the nature of our relationship that stops me from knowing her better. We always talked about catching up. We had changed our jobs, we lived in different places now. Our paths have stopped crossing naturally.
Moreover, when you have fucked a woman, because she wanted to be pregnant with your child, a simple coffee has a lot of undertones.
Nisha didn’t fuck me, just because she liked me. I didn’t fuck her, simply because I have always loved the hint of cleavage in what she wore. I didn’t fuck her because her thighs always looked delicious on the days she came to work in her tight jeans.
Nisha knew what she wanted. She wanted to be a mother. And she knew that she didn’t want that child from her husband. She found a way to make it happen, even if it meant stepping outside the boundaries of her marriage.
In all the times that we fucked, right from the beginning, our relationship was lewd. Whenever I was inside her, all those years ago, I knew that she opened her legs for me, because she wanted my cum. But in her eyes, on her face, on her lips, was mischief. The mischief of pulling off something which very few even dare to think about.
In my relationship with her, she wasn't just looking for the physical act of fucking and making me cum inside her, but a fulfilling experience. She sought the thrill of the secret, the adrenaline rush of stepping outside her marital vows, and the undeniable satisfaction of her desires being met. Every time she came, in front of my eyes, her face glowed. And later, whenever she would know that I am close, that I am going to finish inside her, she will wrap her legs around me, or throw her ass back at me harder, reminding me that I had to finish inside her.
Fucking a woman raw and coming inside her, is an experience that is difficult to write about. If you have read my stories, especially the ones which are not fiction, you would know that I am all about fucking women raw. It’s a dangerous thing, with the obvious danger being STD. And of course, knocking her up. Fucking a woman raw, comes with its inconvenience, of always being aware of when you are the point of no-return.
While with Nisha, it was all about finishing inside her. I knew her husband was fucking her too. I would see him leave, and would often get a text from her right after he left. She would tell me to come up. I would kiss her, I would touch her pussy. She would be wet, quicker than the other times. Maybe it was because of the taboo of calling another man home, right after her husband left, so that she can be fucked raw, to be cummed inside. Again.
Those days, I knew we weren’t fucking just because she wanted to be pregnant. Her husband would be around, during the times of her most infertile time of the cycle. When she would be sucking my dick in those weekends, and later would tell me to fuck her, I knew it wasn’t just for my cum. She did that because she liked it.
She would be extra vocal on those days. Moaning louder, gasping more often, her face more expressive, her pussy more raw than usual.
Those were usually the days, when I would come home with nail scratches, often on my shoulders, because that’s where she liked to dig her fingernails when I was inside her.
Nisha didn’t view lust as something to be shamed or suppressed; rather, she saw it as a natural human desire that can be harnessed to fulfill her deeper needs. She understood that lust is not just about physicality, but also about connection, intimacy, and the irresistible pull of a forbidden desire. In those days, we were connected by an unconventional arrangement.
Not very long after I had started publishing here, I had sent her my story about her. Her daughter was already born by then. It had been two years since we had fucked. I wouldn’t have sent her that post, if not for being shit-drunk, alone in my flat, smoking my 12th cigarette of the day (like every smoker, who is trying to quit, I keep a log of cigarettes that I smoke. I have read somewhere that it helps you quit, knowing how many you have smoked. Well, I have been keeping that log for almost 16 months. And I have a cigarette between my fingers, as I write this).
It was 2 AM when I had sent her the link to A Workplace Donation. It didn’t have any art at that time, since I was yet to learn how to make those. I remember, reading my own story, and jerking off, thinking about the times with Nisha. About her face whenever I entered her, her cheekbones when she smiled. And more importantly, the way it felt when I came inside her. Those seconds, leading up to the realization, that I was about to come, the look in her eyes, when she could feel my dick thickening inside her, her face earnest with the anticipation of feeling my hot cum hit her insides.
That night, right before cumming, I imagined, Nisha reading the story. I imagined her, touching herself as she read the way I had fucked her face on the couch, the way we had fucked for the very first time, the way I had filled her up with my cum, for the very first time.
I had woken up well past 10 AM the next morning, only to discover a flurry of messages from her, all around 6 AM.
“Wow,” she had said.
“Didn’t know you would write something like this,” she had said.
“Did you like it?” I had replied.
She never replied to that text. She sent a trivial “Hey, what’s up?” a week later. She didn’t talk about it much, I didn’t talk much about it either.
Our story, our secret, was out in the open — well, at least between us. Nisha had become a mother, a role she always desired, and I was the silent partner in her journey. Her husband, unaware of our adulterous escapades, was living his dream of a happy family, raising a child that wasn't his.
“We should meet really soon,” I had texted her in the beginning of May.
“Yes! It’s been so long,” she had replied, hours later.
This was not the first time we were talking about this. It’s the same couple of messages. It was either me telling her that we should meet, or it was she who would tell me that we should catch up. We would both agree that it’s been very long since we have seen each other physically. And we would both say, that let’s plan something in the weekend.
When the weekend came around, I would be out at a bar talking to women, or on a date with a much younger girl. Or she would be away in Goa on a vacation with her husband and her daughter. Either one of us would apologize, and the other would say that they understand. We would say next time. Three years have gone by this way.
In the three years, of course, both of us have changed. We were 28 when we had fucked last time. Since then, I have hooked up with Redditors, have fucked three young girls in Alibag, and more importantly, have met someone I love. And for Nisha, she had gone from dealing a “weight issue” (which I never understood. She always looked fappable in her WhatsApp statuses. She relilgiously updated her WhatsApp status, telling the world about her latest vacation, or the first day at pre-school and things as such), to look just how she did before I knocked her up. That’s the only extent of my knowledge about her, because, well, like I said, we could barely talk in all this time.
An Evening with the Girls - 1
The Woman with a Cigarette - 1
Twice the Fun - 1
This time was different though.
It was a Thursday, when I had texted her that we should meet on the Saturday. I had forgotten about it, till I received a text from her on Friday.
“We are meeting tomorrow right??” she had texted.
Double question marks. I find it awfully annoying when someone uses more than one question mark. There’s no point. Are you asking the same question twice? Are you yelling the question? But, with Nisha, I could ignore these little things.
“Yes,” I replied. I added quickly, with the fear that she would probably stop replying for another couple of hours, “Let’s meet around 12 PM. You remember that Starbucks in Bandra, where we used to go earlier?”
She started typing. And then stopped.
I sighed. Kept the phone away. I was in the middle of a game session then. I have started playing Overwatch recently, more out of pressure than pleasure. My squad of faceless online friends, are bored of Fortnite. And there I was, scratching my head, about which Hero to pick. I would rather stay on my trusty Fortnite Island.
My head wasn’t in the game though.
I had taken a break from dating apps for a bit, been focusing on other projects — writing here and some of my other non-kinky projects. I didn’t have anything planned for Saturday. When I told Nisha about the Stabucks, I wasn’t even sure if that Starbucks was still open. I hadn’t been to that area in a while.
Me and Nisha, years ago, would often go there, to have some coffee and talk. We weren’t fucking at that time of course. I would tell her about the latest girl I was fucking. I remember, telling her in detail about Prerna and Arunika. Her reactions, which ranged from blushing to outright laughing at my predicament of going to meet Arunika, with a hickie from Prerna still on my chest.
A Proper One Night Stand - Part 1
A One Trip Stand - Part 1
My phone buzzed. I was in the middle of a team fight. I didn’t reach for my phone right away. I was expecting Nisha to say that she couldn’t make it. It was a long drive, from Vasai to Bandra, and all that for a coffee? Maybe I should have offered something in Borivali.
When I checked my message, after a humiliating loss, after being goaded by my teammates for having exceptional aim but dogshit game sense, Nisha had replied with a simple, “Yes, I can be there by 12 PM.”
I paused before replying to her. Would she be driving all the way down, just for a cup of coffee?
“That’s great! When do you have to return?”
“So eager already about me to go back? Do you really want to meet?”
“Haha, no, I mean, we should do something more than coffee,” I replied, with a wink emoji.
“Oh! I am free the entire Saturday. It’s a long story how I managed it, but after a long time, I have an entire day, just for myself,” she said.
“Perfect,” I replied, “see you tomorrow.”
While driving to the Starbucks, I realized that I have not talked more than 15 mins at a stretch with Nisha, in a long time. There were times, when we were young colleagues, and would spend hours at office, slacking at work and chit chatting. We would talk about everything that can be talked about. About sex. About politics. About love. About gender inequality.
In my mind, Nisha was still that bubbly sexy girl, with a curvy ass and a slender waist, with breasts that looked too large on her, because of the way her body framed them. Whenever I made Nisha laugh, she would giggle, and squeeze her arms together, and throw her head back. I watched her chin, her slender neck, her delicate throat. It took me years, to finally grab her throat and kiss those lips. But in mind, she was still the Nisha, sitting across a table, her breasts pushed out, listening to everything I said, talking in her nasal voice.
As I got closer to the Starbucks, I realized, that Nisha is probably long gone. She was a mother now. I have not heard her voice in a long time. I haven’t made her laugh. I have only read about her laughing. And she was also the mother of my child. A bastard child, but a child no less. It’s something that I have never let sink in. It’s something that I have written for everyone to read, but never accepted it or acted on it in the fullest sense.
It was five past 12, when I was seated. I ordered a flat white, and texted Nisha that I was there.
“Parking,” she texted back.
I scrolled through my notifications on Reddit. I was in the process of writing about Shikha (u/arora_chef) at that time. It is usually a dangerous thing to text Shikha in public. You never know when she would send a photo of her, with her breasts out, or to show how wet she has gotten while texting you.
“Hi,” I heard Nisha’s familiar voice, before I felt the tap on my shoulder.
I turned around and smiled. I stood up.
“Finally!” I said.
There was a pause, with smiles in both our faces. We both leaned forward, almost at the same time. We hugged each other. I wrapped my hand around her shoulder. My chin brushed against her forehead. There was the faint smell of perfume on her, and her hair smelled of shampoo. I felt her hand slightly linger on my waist.
She sat down in front of me, keeping down her tote. In the short walk across the table, I saw her jeans. She still wore the kinds that hugged every curve of her ass. Even after all this time, and her ass was still as bubbly as I remembered. She was wearing top, which was loose. I could see the hint of her love handles, a little more fat around her waist than I remembered.
“A Gucci?” I said, “since when did you start splurging money on such things?”
“It was an apology gift from Adish. You know how he is,” she said, adjusting her hair.
She had her hair tie around her wrists, the black band a contrast to her porcelain skin. She held her loose hair, and used the hair tie to bring it together in a loose bun. She had colored her hair brown, with golden highlights. It was longer than I remembered. If she were sitting in front of me naked, her hair would reach her nipples, maybe even covering some of it.
All those years back, when we were fucking to make her pregnant, it was of shoulder length, providing no modesty, in the times when she would actually sit naked in front of me, working on something on her laptop, after we were done fucking. I had the habit of hanging around for a bit, after cumming inside her. It felt like an instinctive courtesy.
“What?” Nisha, had noticed me looking at her. My eyes often get glassy when I think back, especially about naked women.
“Nothing. You look beautiful today,” I said.
She set her phone aside, and put her elbows on the table. She pushed her chest out. The floral top that she was wearing, was loose around her waist, but it betrayed the size of her breasts. And the way she pushed her chest out, with her elbows on the table, her hand beneath her chin, and that sweet smile on her face — I had to exhale a breath of relief. She hadn’t changed much, after all.
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Whispers of the Past - 2
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