Their Wonder Years: Season 1: Fall 1998
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
26: The Legend of Wild Stone
Coming of Age Sex Story: 26: The Legend of Wild Stone - Bharath always thought going to America would mean fast love, wild parties, and maybe a stewardess or two. What he got instead? A busted duffel bag, a crying baby on the plane, and dormmates he never thought could exist in real life. Thrown into the chaos of Georgia Tech’s freshman year, Bharath begins an unforgettable journey of awkward first crushes and culture shocks. A slow-burn, emotionally rich harem romance set in the nostalgic 90s—full of laughter, lust, and longing.
Caution: This Coming of Age Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/ft mt/Fa Consensual Fiction Humor School Sharing Group Sex Harem Orgy Polygamy/Polyamory White Female Hispanic Female Indian Female
Bharath didn’t know how he was standing.
His legs felt like linguine left too long in boiling water. His back ached, his abs stung from the repeated clenching, and his arms had the grip strength of a pool noodle. And yet-he felt ... radiant. Used. Loved. Worshipped. Empowered.
Two hours of slow, sacred chaos in the bedroom that morning with Sarah and Marisol had left him physically enervated and emotionally supercharged.
And somehow, with divine willpower and an indecent amount of electrolytes, here he was: stumbling into the Georgia Tech Student Athletic Center, glowing faintly like a holy saint.
Jorge looked up from his warm-up stretches, one leg hooked on the bench like a flamingo doing ballet.
Tyrel was sprawled on a yoga mat in full faux-Nike gear, clutching a foam roller like it owed him child support.
Ravi sat slumped on the rowing machine with a Gatorade in hand and the dead eyes of a man still waiting for someone to laugh at his best jokes.
“You look like a man who got exorcised,” Jorge said, squinting like Bharath was vibrating.
“I feel like one,” Bharath muttered, rubbing his shoulder. “But like ... in a good way.”
Tyrel raised an eyebrow. “Did the girls summon a demon and make you fight it shirtless?”
He paused.
“ ... Actually, don’t answer that. I don’t need the visual of you chanting in tongues while Marisol rides you like a Valkyrie.”
“TYREL,” Ravi snapped, holding up a hand. “I am a virgin in three time zones. Let me have something.”
Bharath chuckled and dropped his duffel bag. “I’m just here to sweat out the lavender oil and not die.”
“‘Not die,’ he says,” Jorge muttered. “Meanwhile, the hallway gossip makes it sound like you walk on water every day.”
Ravi perked up. “Didn’t Camila say the girls generally glow during their breakfast like actual saints?”
Tyrel nodded solemnly. “She said Marisol looked like she’d been on a pilgrimage to a tantric monastery. And Sarah generally speaks in ... fragments after your morning sessions.”
“She said that?” Bharath blinked.
Jorge smirked. “Camila says a lot. Most of it while biting. But yeah. Apparently your ladies show up looking like they just got baptized in pheromones.”
Ravi sighed dramatically. “Meanwhile, I’m over here trying to build up the courage to put my arm around Nandita’s shoulders.”
Tyrel looked up from the mat. “Bro, I nearly fainted when LaTasha kissed me yesterday.”
Bharath took a seat on the bench. “You guys are exaggerating.”
“No we’re not,” Tyrel said, deadly serious. “There’s a whiteboard in the dorm with a running list of your rumored skills. Someone added ‘telepathy’ and ‘knows the secret G-spot code.’”
“There’s a whiteboard?” Bharath blinked.
Ravi leaned in, reverent. “They call you the ‘Indian Prince of Pleasure’ now.”
Tyrel added, “With abs of devotion.”
Jorge nodded. “And thighs like twin fax machines.”
“ ... Fax machines?” Bharath frowned.
“It’s 1998,” Jorge said with a shrug. “We work with what we know.”
They migrated toward the weights. Bharath picked up two 25s. His arms quivered like a bad lie. Ravi grabbed a 15 and almost tore a ligament trying to curl while watching a girl tie her ponytail.
“Okay,” Jorge said, adjusting his headband. “We need intel. How the hell are you alive? Shouldn’t you be, like, spiritually desiccated by now?”
“Yeah,” Ravi added. “What are they feeding you? Ambrosia? Tandoori-flavored moonlight?”
Before Bharath could answer, a freshman boy in a Pokémon: The Movie T-shirt popped out from behind a squat rack like a gremlin.
“Are you ... the Prince of Pleasure ... the King of the College of Computing?” he asked breathlessly.
“What?!” Bharath blinked.
“That’s what they call you on the dorm whiteboard,” the kid said reverently. “That you smell like Wild Stone and justice. My girlfriend had a dream where you were shampooing her cat and then it levitated.”
“ ... WHAT?!”
The kid bowed, and then vanished into the cardio section like a ninja.
“You need security,” Jorge muttered.
“I’m not magic,” Bharath sighed. “I just listen. And love. And use conditioner.”
Tyrel leaned in. “No. This is a public service. Tell us what they talk about when we’re not around. We need recon.”
Tyrel rolled over dramatically. “Okay, real talk. Are you on drugs? Supplements? Viagra? Vedic prayers? You looked calm. Like post-orgasmic Black Jesus.”
Another student wandered over, a girl in basketball shorts and a Georgia Tech hoodie. “Excuse me. Do you actually meditate between orgasms?”
Ravi shrieked.
Bharath blinked.
The girl nodded solemnly. “I just want you to know that that’s incredible. My roommate said she saw you hovering.”
Tyrel collapsed onto a yoga mat.
Jorge pulled out a resistance band like it was holy scripture. “Okay, I’m done pretending. Teach us, Master. Teach us the Way.”
“I’m just ... loved,” Bharath offered.
“Oh my god,” Ravi muttered. “He’s going full monk again.”
“I told you,” Tyrel snapped. “He’s like if Gandhi and a Playgirl model had a baby and sent him to Georgia Tech.”
Bharath grinned, toweling his face. “Look, there’s no secret technique. No Kama Sutra flashcards. No tantric cheat codes.”
Jorge crossed his arms. “You expect us to believe you’re casually pleasing two beautiful women on the regular and not even breaking a sweat?”
“I am breaking a sweat!” Bharath protested. “Do you see this shirt? It smells like sweat and despair.”
Tyrel leaned in. “Okay, but how? Seriously. What do the girls talk about after all this?”
Ravi nodded eagerly. “Yeah! What do they say when you’re not around?”
Bharath blinked. “Honestly? Not what you think. They talk about lotion. And astrology. And ... mortgages.”
Jorge snorted. “Mortgages?”
“Yeah,” Bharath nodded. “Sarah read one article about property taxes and now she’s decided we need to own a duplex in five years.”
Tyrel looked offended. “So while I’m over here trying to figure out how to ask LaTasha to make out without passing out, your girls are pillow-talking about home equity loans?”
Bharath shrugged. “Sometimes it’s about what songs they’d strip to. Sometimes it’s Marisol explaining recursion in Java while biting my shoulder. It’s a range.”
Ravi dropped his water bottle. “You mean they’re smart and freaky?”
“They’re apsaras,” Bharath said, without irony.
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Then Jorge whispered, “You lucky son of a-”
Tyrel cut in, waving a hand like an NFL coach drawing up a play. “Okay. We need the actual strategy. Are we talking massage oil? Pre-wash rituals? Incense?”
Bharath leaned on a medicine ball. “Fine. Step one: Massage. Use your hands. Your fingers. Like they’re extensions of your soul. You’re not kneading dough-you’re dissolving trauma.”
“Not dough. Dissolve trauma,” Ravi wrote.
“Step two: Shampoo. Take your time. Use your nails. Condition like it’s foreplay.”
“Do you hum while doing it?” Jorge asked.
“I sometimes chant the X-Files theme,” Bharath said solemnly.
Tyrel whispered, “That explains the transcendence.”
Bharath chuckled. “Honestly? Massages help. Learning to shampoo helps. Apparently scalp attention is underappreciated in the male population.”
Ravi scribbled furiously in a notebook. “Scalp. Shampoo. Massage. Male population. Understood.”
Tyrel pointed at him. “You’re writing this down?”
“Bhai,” Ravi hissed, “Do you want to die alone?”
“Step three: Know their cravings. One time, Sarah needed peanut butter, Cool Ranch Doritos, and mango slices at 2:13 AM. I didn’t ask questions. I just got them.”
Jorge whistled. “And they say romance is dead.”
Ravi clutched his pen like it was a crucifix. “Cool Ranch Doritos. 24x7 service like a 7-11. Got it. My man’s living in the legendary edition of life.”
Tyrel sat up, eyes narrowed. “Okay. Last question. What’s the mindset? How do you keep them happy?”
Bharath paused, serious now. “It’s not about keeping them happy like they’re plants. It’s about seeing them. Listening. Touching with purpose. Worshipping like you’re grateful to be allowed near them.”
Ravi’s jaw dropped. “That’s poetry.”
Tyrel grabbed the notebook from Ravi. “Repeat that. Slower. Like a monk.”
Jorge picked up a dumbbell and cradled it like it was holy. “I will never disrespect shampoo again.”
Bharath leaned back on the bench, muscles aching, heart full. “You want the real advice?”
They all leaned in.
He grinned. “Make them laugh. Touch her like you remember her body. And don’t fake listening-just actually care.”
Tyrel whispered like he was receiving prophecy. “Actually care.”
“Also,” Bharath added, “know when to shut up and let her put her cold feet on you and use plenty of Wild Stone.”
“Say less/. Listen like you care ... write that down bhai,” Ravi said reverently. “I’m going to go volunteer as a human space heater.”
“I’m gonna buy a better conditioner,” Tyrel said, already standing.
“Do they make Kama Sutra audiobooks?” Jorge muttered, pulling the notepad towards him to add his notes.
They all huddled around the water fountain after that, debating whether sandalwood candles were too forward for a second date and if learning to braid hair was hot or creepy.
Meanwhile another kid appeared, hands trembling. “Will you sign my arm?”
Tyrel stared. “This is getting culty.”
Bharath just laughed, picked up a kettlebell, and began his set. Every rep hurt like divine penance. His shoulders burned. His thighs begged for mercy.
And he welcomed it.
Marisol’s lips on his temple. Sarah’s voice in his ear.
They gave him everything.
And all he could do now ... was share what little wisdom he had with the boys too dumb to figure it out alone.
The door barely clicked shut behind him when Marisol appeared in the hallway, hands on her hips, eyes gleaming with something between affection and conspiracy.
“Clothes,” she said simply.
Bharath blinked. “What?”
Sarah leaned over the arm of the couch, her voice playful but firm. “Strip. Bath time.”
He chuckled, tossing his gym bag near the door. “I literally just walked in.”
“And now you’re walking out of those,” Marisol said, already padding toward him. “You stink like sweat and virtue.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Virtue?”
Sarah smirked. “Only someone virtuous survives what we did to you this morning and still goes to the gym.”
Before he could reply, Marisol was on him-lifting the hem of his sweat-soaked shirt and pulling it up over his head. Sarah was already by his side, undoing the waistband of his gym pants with a theatrical sigh.
“Honestly, this is for our sanity too,” she said. “You in sweatpants after sex? Criminally hot.”
Bharath opened his mouth to protest-only to find his pants yanked down and a pair of greedy hands cupping his ass.
“Hey-!”
“Shhh,” Marisol whispered. “Just let us.”
He laughed softly as they stripped him completely, pausing every so often to press kisses to his neck, his chest, his hips-nowhere overtly sexual, but everywhere meaningful.
Sarah brushed her lips across his collarbone. “You’re not allowed to wash yourself anymore. It’s our job.”
“And our pleasure,” Marisol added, sliding a hand down his back. “New rule. House policy. Non-negotiable.”
He shook his head, still smiling. “You two are going to be the death of me.”
“We plan on it,” Sarah murmured, taking his hand. “Now into the bath, hero.”
The shower was already filling with steam curling up from the warm water, the air rich with lavender oil and something citrusy. Candles flickered near the edge-Sarah’s touch-and soft music played from a tiny tape deck tucked on the vanity.
Bharath stepped in first, easing into the heat with a groan.
But before he could settle, two pairs of hands were on him again.
He didn’t resist.
Marisol stood behind him, guiding his back against her chest, her arms curling around his waist. Sarah stood next to him dipping her hands into the warm water and lathering a sweet-smelling shampoo between her fingers.
“We take care of our man,” Sarah whispered as she smoothed the foam into his hair, her nails massaging his scalp in slow, circular patterns.
Marisol’s hands slid down his arms, over his chest, her lips pressing kisses to his damp shoulder blades. “Every inch. Every day. You don’t lift a finger when it comes to this. Understood?”
Bharath groaned-not from exhaustion, but from how amazing he felt in that moment. Cared for. Claimed. Cherished.
“Yes,” he breathed.
The shampoo frothed as Sarah worked deeper, scratching gently behind his ears, dragging her fingers down to his neck.
“I love this hair,” she said softly. “It’s strong and soft. Like you.”
Marisol chuckled. “He is soft right now. Well ... mostly.”
They giggled as his cheeks flushed, and Sarah leaned in to press a kiss to his wet temple. Her eyes were glassy with affection.
“You are ours,” she whispered. “And we don’t waste bathtime.”
Marisol nodded against his back. “And if you ever try to shower alone again, we’ll punish you.”
“Oh?” he rasped. “And how exactly?”
Sarah leaned down and nipped his ear. “We’ll not let you touch us for a whole day.”
Bharath’s breath caught. “Cruel.”
“Necessary,” Marisol said. “Now hush. We’re not done worshipping you.”
They rinsed his hair slowly, taking turns pouring water over his head from a ceramic jug, watching the suds trail down his body. Marisol’s hands began soaping his chest next-long, slow strokes down his sternum, her thumbs caressing his ribs as though learning him again.
Sarah lathered his arms, bringing his fingers to her mouth and kissing each one, reverent. Her lips lingered on his palm before she guided it to her cheek.
“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” she whispered.
He met her eyes-and saw nothing but truth there.
Marisol’s hands moved to his thighs now, massaging deeply, kneading the muscle with slow intent.
“You give us everything,” she said quietly. “And we see it. All of it.”
Bharath’s voice was hoarse. “You two ... you make me feel like...”
“Say it,” Sarah urged, crawling into the tub now so she could straddle his lap, careful not to take it further, just resting her forehead to his. “Say how we make you feel.”
“Like I matter,” he whispered.
Marisol tightened her arms around him from behind.
“You do,” she said fiercely.
“To both of us,” Sarah added, kissing his jaw, his brow, the tip of his nose.
They stayed like that for minutes, maybe hours. The water cooled around them, but none of them moved. Bharath’s head rested between their breasts. Their hands drifted along his skin like the tide-never sexual, but deeply intimate.
They kissed him until he smiled again.
They bathed him like he was sacred.
The new rule was clear:
Bharath never bathed alone again.
The diner was nearly empty, save for a pair of retirees sipping coffee in the corner and a college couple sharing a newspaper and greasy fries. The neon sign buzzed faintly outside, casting flickers of pink and blue over the fogged windows. It was the kind of place that smelled like burnt toast, syrup, and butter-safe, unremarkable, and perfect for staying under the radar.
Bharath, Marisol, and Sarah slid into a booth near the back, the vinyl seat cold against their jeans. They kept their voices low, their touches subtle, but the warmth between them hummed beneath every glance, every brush of the hand on the table.
“Toast, hash browns, eggs-no meat?” the waitress asked, barely looking up from her notepad as she refilled their water glasses.
“No meat, please,” Bharath replied, giving her a polite smile.
Marisol grinned across the table. “He’s the only man I know who could worship two women and still be gentle to a cow.”
“Discipline,” Sarah said, smirking. “His superpower.”
Bharath raised his coffee cup. “And yours is corruption.”
They laughed softly, and for a moment, it was just the three of them in their bubble-steaming mugs, shared toast, glances that lingered.
“So,” Sarah began, sobering slightly, “Mia’s coming today?”
Bharath nodded. “After classes. I’ll tutor her like we planned. But ... I want to bring her home after. So she can meet you, Sarah. See this” - he gestured gently between the three of them - “with her own eyes.”
Marisol arched an eyebrow. “Tonight?”
“If she wants to stay over, let her. No pressure. Just ... let her feel the truth of it. Not gossip. Not whispers. Just us.”
Sarah leaned back. “Let her ask questions. Let her watch. Let her ... decide.”
He nodded. “Exactly. She’s smart. She will figure something is up between us when she meets us. If we don’t bring her into the light, she’ll be lost in the rumors.”
Marisol stirred her coffee. “You think she’ll be okay?”
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I know she loves and respects you. And if she sees you loving this - us - I hope she’ll believe it’s real.”
There was a pause.
Then Marisol smiled.
“I haven’t spent proper time with her in weeks. Just quick check-ins. Maybe this is overdue.”
Sarah reached for Bharath’s hand beneath the table. “And if it overwhelms her?”
“Let’s figure that out when we cross that bridge. I feel she will understand though.”
Marisol looked between them, heart swelling with a strange mix of excitement and apprehension. “You two really are the most dangerous kind of people.”
Bharath tilted his head. “How so?”
“Gentle,” she said. “But unstoppable.”
They finished breakfast in silence after that, save for a few soft chuckles, shared bites, and quiet sips. Outside, the first week of November painted the world in gold and rust. A chill wind waited to bite at their jackets, but here, in this booth, they were warm.
And somewhere later that day, Mia Rivera would step into the world they had built.
The Georgia autumn was showing off - crisp air, golden leaves swirling in lazy eddies, and a sky so clear it felt painted. Marisol tucked herself under Bharath’s right arm. Sarah claimed the left. Three sets of footsteps in sync. One unit.
A few passing students turned to look, some curious, others slack-jawed. A few whispers trailed behind them.
But none of them cared.
Marisol was humming softly, her hand trailing lazy circles against Bharath’s lower back. “So ... I was thinking.”
“That’s always dangerous,” Sarah quipped.
“Quiet, slut. I was thinking it’s time you were properly inducted.”
Bharath glanced down, suspicious. “Inducted into what? She already knows about Sacred Tuesdays.”
“And lives for them,” Sarah added, smiling wickedly. “Nooners, cock worship, sacred choking. Best part of the week.”
Marisol grinned. “Exactly. But there’s one thing you haven’t done yet. One ritual.”
Sarah tilted her head. “There’s more?”
“Oh yeah,” Marisol said, voice low. “The claiming.”
Sarah slowed her step. “Claiming?”
Marisol stopped for dramatic effect, tugging Bharath and Sarah to a halt with her. “When we first got together, Bharath made me lie down on his bed ... and he pointed to every single part of my body and declared it his.”
Sarah’s eyes widened slightly, lips parted.
“He’d say, ‘Mine,’” Marisol whispered, her voice like velvet. “Then he’d touch it. Sometimes kiss it. Sometimes spank it. Sometimes...” She gave Bharath a sly look.
“I get the picture,” Sarah said, her cheeks pinkening.
“I didn’t even know I craved that kind of ownership,” Marisol confessed. “But the way he did it? Reverent. Commanding. Like my body was a kingdom, and he was its rightful ruler. I melted.”
Sarah turned to Bharath, pupils dilated. “Why haven’t we done this?”
Bharath rubbed his temple. “Because every Tuesday you two wreck me for hours and I can barely walk by lunch let alone remember rituals.”
Marisol giggled. “He’s still recovering from last week. Remember how you choked yourself on him while I rode him and made him spank me until I sobbed?”
Sarah shivered. “I do. I still dream about it.”
“I still feel it,” Bharath muttered.
Sarah pressed herself closer to him. “Tonight. I want the whole thing. Claim me. Worship me. Own me.”
Marisol winked. “And then we can spank each other until someone begs.”
Sarah raised an eyebrow. “Someone?”
Marisol grinned. “Usually me.”
Bharath choked. “You two are plotting my physical demise.”
“Not demise,” Marisol said, her lips brushing his ear. “Devotion.”
Sarah smirked. “You spank her, right?”
Marisol nodded. “Sometimes soft. Sometimes hard. Depends on how much I beg for it. Or how much you egg him on.”
Sarah’s eyes gleamed. “I love watching that. The way she arches. The way you growl.”
“I swear to god,” Bharath muttered.
“Oh, and you love it,” Sarah said sweetly. “Just like you love when I choke on you until you twitch.”
Marisol mock-fanned herself. “I’m horny again.”
Sarah mock-nodded. “Same. Can’t believe it’s not even noon.”
Bharath sighed. “Can’t believe I thought college would be about computers.”
“Speaking of systems,” Sarah said brightly, “I propose a new tradition.”
“Of course you do,” he groaned.
“Tandem blowjob and titjob alarm clock,” she declared. “To wake you up right. Tuesdays and Fridays?”
Marisol looked thoughtful. “Hmm. Balance. Holistic. I approve.”
Bharath stopped walking. “You two need help.”
“You need protein,” Marisol said, kissing his cheek. “And electrolytes.”
Sarah looped her arm around his waist. “Man up, lover. You started this. Now keep up.”
They continued toward campus with Bharath half-laughing, half-dreading, and completely smitten.
As they crossed the street, the breeze caught Sarah’s curls and Marisol’s voice as she whispered something else in his ear that made him stumble slightly.
Maria Rivera stirred the pot on the stove with a practiced hand, the scent of simmering tomatoes and garlic filling the kitchen. The clink of a spoon against ceramic echoed behind her-Mia, eating cereal at the counter, for once not glued to the phone or flipping through a magazine. Her leg bounced restlessly under the stool.
Maria didn’t comment on it.
She didn’t have to.
Mia was practically vibrating with energy.
“So,” Mia said, her tone suspiciously casual, “I might head to campus later. Marisol asked if I wanted to hang out.”
Maria arched an eyebrow. “Since when do you ‘hang out’ on a school night?”
“It’s not just for fun,” Mia said quickly. “Bharath’s helping me with calculus. He’s ... really good at explaining stuff.”
“Mm-hmm.” Maria turned back to the stove, hiding the small smile tugging at her lips. “And you need help in the evening now?”
“Well, yeah. It’s quieter at night. And I might stay over, y’know ... spend some time with Marisol. I haven’t seen her properly in weeks.”
Maria turned, ladle in hand, and gave her daughter a long, knowing look. “You used to roll your eyes when your sister talked about college boys. Now you’re volunteering for overnight study sessions?”
Mia flushed. “It’s not like that. I mean-he’s different.”
“Different how?”
Mia hesitated. “He ... listens. And he believes in me. Like, really believes I can make it into Georgia Tech. He makes me want to prove him right.”
Maria watched her carefully, placing the ladle on a folded towel.
“You like him,” she said simply.
Mia opened her mouth. Closed it. Then looked away. “Maybe.”
There was a beat of silence. The kitchen clock ticked louder than it should have.
“I’m not saying I’ll do anything,” Mia added quickly. “I’m not trying to ruin anything between him and Marisol. I just ... want to be near him. That’s all.”
Maria leaned against the counter, arms crossed. Her gaze softened, but it didn’t lose its sharpness.
“He’s a good man,” she said after a moment. “That night you met him, I saw it in how he carried himself. The way he looked at you-like you were someone worth taking seriously. Not just for how you look.”
Mia’s face warmed again, but this time with something deeper than embarrassment.
Maria continued. “But he’s still a man. And you’re ... not exactly forgettable, mija.”
Mia smirked. “You mean I’m hotter than Marisol?”
“I mean,” Maria said with a raised brow, “you’ve always known how to turn heads. But your sister has her own fire. And she’s in love. You are stepping too close to that ... could burn you both.”
“I know,” Mia said quietly.
Maria stepped forward and gently tucked a strand of hair behind Mia’s ear. “Just ... be careful, chiquita. Don’t mistake admiration for something deeper. And if it does become something more, make sure you’re proud of how you got there.”
Mia nodded, her throat tight.
“I just want to be someone he respects,” she whispered. “Someone he could-maybe, someday-care about.”
Maria didn’t respond right away. She just pulled her daughter into a brief, warm hug.
“I hope he is the man you think he is,” she said softly. “For both your sakes.”
The campus dining hall was, once again, humming.
Trays clattered, chairs scraped, and conversations swirled like wind through leaves-but Table 7, by the east-facing windows, had a gravity all its own.
At the center of it all sat Bharath, flanked by Marisol and Sarah like bookends of devotion. On his right, Marisol poked at her burrito bowl with studied calm, one hand always resting somewhere on Bharath-his forearm, his thigh, his knee under the table. On his left, Sarah nibbled carrot sticks with alarming grace, occasionally slipping him sips of her strawberry lemonade without being asked.
Across from them, Jorge, Ravi, Tyrel, Camila, LaTasha, and Nandita did their best to act casual. It didn’t work.
There was a subtle but unmistakable energy around the table-part reverence, part chaos. A few heads from neighboring tables turned their way now and then, whispering, giggling, nudging elbows.
“Okay,” Tyrel said, finally leaning forward, “you want to hear today’s greatest hits?”
Bharath blinked. “Do I?”
“Oh, you do,” Ravi said, eyes wide.
“I’m just brushing my teeth,” Tyrel began, “minding my business. Then these two freshmen barge into the bathroom and ask me-me!-if I know where the Prince of Pleasure’ lives.”
“Another time I heard someone say you’ve got healing hands,” Tyrel whispered. “Like, literally. There’s a kid claiming his acne cleared up after you high-fived him yesterday.”
Sarah choked on her lemonade.
LaTasha dropped her fork.
Marisol snorted into her napkin. “Prince of what now?”
Tyrel threw his hands up. “Don’t ask me! I’m just quoting. Apparently, they’ve started a whole discussion thread about Bharath on the dorm whiteboard. He has other names too ... like the King of the College of Computing”
Jorge chimed in. “Last night two guys knocked on my door just to see Bharath’s desk. They wanted to know what cologne he uses. Said they were doing ‘recon.’”
Ravi nodded solemnly. “One of them was taking notes.”
Marisol tilted her head at Bharath. “What do you use?”
Bharath straightened like a soldier reporting to duty. “Wild Stone,” he declared. “It’s this musky-”
Both girls gasped.
“Oh my god,” Sarah groaned.
“No,” Marisol said, pointing at him. “Absolutely not. We binned that weeks ago. You’re still using that?.”
“But it’s got this ... smoky charm,” Bharath defended weakly.
Sarah leaned in, dead serious. “It smells like bad decisions and airport bathrooms.”
“You said you liked it!” Bharath protested.
“We like you, “ Marisol replied with a grin. “Not the chemical weapon you were wearing.”
“Blasphemy,” Jorge said, cracking up. “I knew that smell was working some kind of dark magic.”
Tyrel leaned back. “I’m just saying-if the campus has an underground ‘Bharath strategy council,’ I want in. I’ll sell tips.”
“I knew I had a fan club back home,” Bharath muttered dramatically. “Looks like they’ve gone international.”
Sarah and Marisol leaned into him from either side and kissed his cheeks in unison.
“You’re welcome,” Marisol whispered.
“We created a monster,” Sarah added.
Nandita, who had been flipping through a notebook with choreo sketches, finally looked up. “Okay, enough about perfume espionage and fan clubs-we need to dance.”
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