19: A Campus Transformed

The world outside was still gray with sleep, painted in streaks of soft gold from the early morning sun. But Bharath was already awake-very awake.

He lay perfectly still, listening to the rhythm of their breathing. One breath, warm and slow against his chest. The other, faint and shallower, brushing past his neck. He blinked, vision adjusting to the soft light of dawn filtering through the gauzy curtains.

He didn’t move. Not yet.

Because he was wrapped in the kind of luxury no man could ever really prepare for. Marisol was pressed flush against his right side, her bountiful chest rising and falling against his face, one thigh slung lazily over his own like she was anchoring him to the mattress. Her silky hair had taken over the pillow, a fragrant, wild mess that tickled his jaw.

On his other side, Sarah had curled up half on top of him sometime during the night. Her arm was draped over his chest possessively, one knee tucked into his hip. Her hair smelled faintly of coconut and mango shampoo, and one soft breast had found its home against his cheek.

He was sandwiched between warmth, softness, femininity. Not some fantasy-but real, tangible skin, breath, curves, and heartbeats.

And nestled against both sides of his face?

Heaven.

Two breasts, both DDs, both exquisite in their own way. Each one resting against his cheeks, his jawline, his lips if he angled his head just so. Warm, soft, grounding. Sarah’s breast, to his left, had slipped free from the sheet and rested lightly against his neck. Its weight was gentler, higher, more sculpted, the kind of shape that sat snug in his palm and left him always wanting more. Her nipple-small, pink, and upturned-was already peeking through the morning chill.

To the right, Marisol’s fullness rested in decadent contrast. Heavier, softer, and more generous, her breast felt like the comfortable cushion in the world. Her nipples, darker and broader, carried the kind of sensitivity that turned her voice into music if he so much as grazed them.

He didn’t try to be poetic. There was no poetry here-just awe. The raw kind.

He tilted his head slightly, brushing his nose against Sarah’s breast. Her scent hit him immediately-a hint of the lotion from the night before. It was faint but unmistakable, and it made his mouth water. Slowly, reverently, he brought his lips to her nipple and gave it a soft kiss. She stirred, not fully awake, but her body responded anyway-her back arched faintly and a quiet hum escaped her throat.

His hand slid under the blanket and over her hip, fingers tracing the dip of her waist until he cupped the swell of her breast in his palm. She felt perfect. He thumbed her nipple, watching it stiffen against his touch. She whimpered softly in her sleep and squeezed her thighs around him without meaning to-her inner thigh grazing against his length with enough friction to make him grunt low in his throat.

She didn’t even realize what she was doing.

He turned to his other side and inhaled deeply. Marisol’s skin was warm and faintly salty, with the earthy sweetness of amber and cinnamon. He pressed his face into the generous slope of her chest, nuzzling until he found her nipple with his lips. Then he kissed it, slow and deep. She didn’t move at first-just sighed-and then muttered something in slurred Spanish that he couldn’t understand but made his chest tighten anyway.

His hand found her other breast under the sheets. His palm sank into it as if her body molded itself for his hands alone. When he rolled the nipple gently between his fingers, her hips shifted and her leg tightened around his.

Bharath blinked, looked down at his morning state, then sighed.

He pulled both women closer with each arm-left arm curled around Sarah, right hand still teasing Marisol. Both girls let out small sounds of contentment, unconsciously nestling into him further.

He could stay like this forever.

And then he saw them. Faint, but there.

Marks.

On Sarah’s breast near the curve of her sternum-one of his love bites, nearly faded. Another, lower on Marisol’s collarbone-darker, but already lightening at the edges.

He grinned. He remembered that night clearly. They had made him promise-both of them-that he’d never let their marks fade. That when one started to disappear, he’d replace it. Not out of possessiveness, they said. Out of reverence. Out of belonging.

He kissed the fading mark on Sarah first, just above the spot where her heart beat under skin. A soft, open-mouthed kiss. She squirmed lightly in her sleep, her grip on his waist tightening.

“Again...” she mumbled, barely conscious.

He smiled. “Later,” he whispered, and kissed her again anyway. Then his teeth found the spot just beside it, and he left a fresh one-gently, but firm enough to make it last.

She let out a moan and pressed her hips forward into him.

He turned to Marisol next. Her clavicle was already home to a mark from the night before, but he wasn’t about to leave it half-faded. He traced his tongue just below it, then bit-soft, slow, just enough pressure to make her arch and mutter, “You better be replacing the one that’s fading, mi corazón...”

“I am,” he said softly. “I always keep my promises.”

She hummed, her leg hiking higher over his thigh. Her hips found his, rubbing sleepily against his hardness.

“Don’t tease,” she said, half-awake.

“Who’s teasing?” he murmured, kissing across her breast again and drawing her nipple into his mouth.

Sarah stirred next, waking more fully. She blinked, rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, then looked down at him.

“What time is it?” she murmured.

“Too early,” Bharath said between licks.

“You’re already up,” she said, voice gravelly with sleep. “And already causing trouble.”

She reached down and grabbed his hand, guiding it back to her chest. “I want one too. A fresh one.”

“You got yours already.”

“Doesn’t count,” she said. “I wasn’t conscious while you did it.”

Bharath chuckled and kissed her again-this time just below the curve of her underboob, teeth scraping gently. Sarah gasped. “That’s better.”

Marisol smirked, one eye now open. “Do me again.”

He didn’t argue.

He leaned into her chest again and sucked deeply, using his tongue to swirl around her already stiff nipple before biting just under the curve of her mound. This time, she let out a full moan and dug her fingers into his hair.

“You’re such a good boy when you’re horny,” she teased breathlessly.

Sarah giggled. “He’s not just horny. He’s ravenous.”

“Damn right I am,” Bharath mumbled, still focused on Marisol’s breast.

Sarah tugged his head back and guided it to hers. “Then prove it.”

He was only too happy to oblige.

For the next few minutes, Bharath took turns lavishing attention on both women, cupping, licking, sucking, marking. His hands moved from breast to breast, his thumbs pressing into soft flesh, fingers trailing along ribs, massaging the weight in each palm like they were his personal prayer beads.

Marisol arched into him with abandon, murmuring encouragement between breaths.

Sarah whined when he left her for more than a few seconds. “Come back here. No favoritism.”

He laughed into her chest.

Her response was to pull him deeper, breasts squishing against his face. “That’s your fault if you can’t breathe.”

By the time the alarm finally buzzed to life, shrill and annoying from the nightstand, all three of them were tangled in a mess of limbs and flushed skin.

Marisol slapped the top of the alarm clock with a grumble. “Kill it.”

Sarah whined, “Five more minutes.”

“I have to go,” Bharath said reluctantly, untangling himself one limb at a time.

“No,” Marisol said, wrapping her arms around his waist.

Sarah clung to his forearm. “You’re warm. We’re cold.”

“I’ll come back sweaty,” he teased.

“Gross,” both girls said at the same time, but neither let go.

He kissed them each again, then gently pried himself loose. Marisol rolled toward Sarah and tucked her head into the crook of her neck. Sarah’s arms wrapped around her automatically.

As he stood, stretching with a quiet groan, he glanced back at the bed.

Two women, tangled in sheets and hair and each other, marked with his love, glowing in the soft light of morning.

He almost crawled back in.

But instead, he pulled on his shorts, grabbed his towel, and headed to the gym-still aching. Still smiling.

The gym smelled like iron, sweat, and early morning regret.

Bharath pushed open the door to the Georgia Tech Athletic Center, towel around his neck, shirt still clinging from the Atlanta humidity. The weight of his morning-of lips, of breasts, of belonging-lingered in his bones. But this? This was a different ritual.

Inside, Jorge was already there. Alone, for once. No Discman. No chaos. Just him and the soft clink of metal as he racked a pair of dumbbells back into place.

“Early bird,” Bharath called out.

Jorge turned with a grin. “Look who survived the lionesses. I thought they were gonna eat you alive this morning.”

“They did,” Bharath said, chuckling as he dropped his gym bag. “But I’m here. Just barely.”

“Man,” Jorge said, stretching his arms behind his head, “you know people are gonna talk, right?”

“They already are.”

Jorge nodded. “Yeah, well, let ‘em. You looked happy. That’s rare around here.”

There was a pause as Bharath grabbed a set of weights and joined him at the benches. The clinking of metal echoed between sets, their movements syncing in quiet rhythm-inhale, lift, lower, exhale.

“Thanks for being cool about all this,” Bharath said, wiping sweat from his brow.

“You kidding?” Jorge scoffed. “I think it’s beautiful, bro. Real talk? You didn’t just get lucky. You earned that love. They see something in you. We all do.”

Bharath smiled, humbled. “You ever think it’s too much? Like ... all of this?”

Jorge considered it, then shrugged. “Sure. But love’s not supposed to be measured. It’s supposed to be felt. And from where I’m standing? You’re feeling it. Hard.”

Another few reps passed in silence before Bharath glanced sideways.

“What about you?” he asked. “You and Camila seem tight.”

Jorge paused mid-curl.

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Bharath grinned. “That’s the sound people make when they’re in deep.”

“Shut up pendejo,” Jorge muttered, his cheeks coloring. “It’s not like that.”

“It totally is.”

Jorge sat back, letting the weights rest on his thighs. His voice was quieter now.

“She’s ... everything, man. Funny, sharp, wild. She dances like the floor’s afraid of her.”

Bharath nodded. “You smile more when she’s around.”

Jorge exhaled, laughing nervously. “Yeah. I’m thinking of asking her to be my girl. Like ... officially. At Club Zero.”

“On Halloween night?”

Jorge nodded, eyes drifting.

“She loves that place. The energy, the lights, the music. I thought ... maybe I’ll ask her during the last set. Something chill. Just us, you know?”

Bharath’s smile widened. “She’ll say yes.”

“You think so?” Jorge’s voice cracked slightly.

“I do. She looks at you like you invented laughter.”

Jorge laughed out loud at that. “Que saico. Are you trying to ghostwrite my vows?”

“No,” Bharath said, pressing into his final reps. “Just saying. If I didn’t already have two girls licking bite marks onto me every morning, I’d be jealous.”

Jorge clapped his back. “Proud of you, hermano.”

They finished in silence, the sweat drying over pride and something deeper-brotherhood. Not the performative kind. The real kind. The kind forged not just in reps or teasing, but trust.

As they walked out of the gym together into the morning sunlight, Jorge nudged him.

“So ... your girls. Are they cool with body glitter and fog machines?”

“Why?”

“Because Camila said if you three show up as anything less than a synchronized costume trio, she’ll revoke your club privileges.”

Bharath laughed.

“Then we better bring the thunder.”

The front door creaked open.

The house smelled faintly of coffee and something sweet-maybe vanilla body mist or whatever Sarah had in that lotion she used. The air was warm, still, too quiet. A soft hum of conversation had gone silent the moment he turned the key.

Bharath stepped inside, damp towel slung around his neck, shirt clinging to his chest with the ghost of sweat. His legs were sore, but that warm ache only made him feel more alive.

And then he saw them.

In the kitchen. Barefoot. Standing at the counter like it was some kind of cursed tableau designed to destroy him.

Marisol was leaning forward slightly, sipping from a mug, wearing nothing but a clingy white tee that barely reached her belly button and a black thong riding high over her hips. Her curls were tied up messily, exposing her bare shoulders and the hickey he’d left on her collarbone.

Sarah, beside her, was wearing a pale blue tee stretched tight across her breasts-no bra-her nipples tenting the fabric like headlights. Just a delicate, teasing jiggle every time she shifted her weight. A soft grey thong and her long, toned legs completed the ensemble. She’d twisted her hair into a clip, but a few wet strands curled at her temple.

They both turned when they heard him.

Marisol smiled first-slow, knowing, like she’d been counting the minutes.

Sarah tilted her head. “He’s baaack,” she murmured.

“Finally,” Marisol said, setting her mug down. “We were going to start without you.”

Bharath dropped his gym bag with a thud.

“Are you trying to kill me?”

“No,” Marisol said sweetly. “Just punish you for leaving us hot and bothered.”

Sarah crossed the kitchen, hips swaying deliberately, and reached for his towel. “You’re all sweaty.”

“Yeah. It was a good session.”

“Mm.” She lifted the towel and dabbed at his chest. “That’s our line.”

Bharath inhaled sharply.

“We didn’t even get to say goodbye,” Marisol said, coming up behind him. “Just groped us a little, got us all warm and needy, then slipped off to do bicep curls.”

Her hand slid around his waist. Then lower.

“You know what that does to a girl’s ego?” she whispered in his ear.

Sarah kissed his collarbone. “Or her patience?”

Bharath’s breath hitched. “We have class in an hour.”

“Then you’d better make it count,” Marisol said, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the bathroom as Sarah pulled his shorts down.