Their Wonder Years: Season 1: Fall 1998
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
42: Sexy Spies
Coming of Age Sex Story: 42: Sexy Spies - 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
Zara didn’t just walk. She glided - or at least that’s what she told herself. Her hips swayed like a temple dancer, her ponytail bounced in perfect rhythm, infused with enough hairspray to qualify her as a walking fire hazard. Every step carried a silent proclamation: behold, peasants, the Zara has arrived.
In Zara’s head, she wasn’t just Zara, campus alpha with too many A’s with a best friend who was currently stuck between sultry goddess and clinically depressed freshman. She was Catherine Zeta-Jones in The Mask of Zorro personified. She was every bit the lethal, smirking, goddess that attempted to defend the barracks in the movie. Sexy yet attainable. And honestly? If Bharath happened to show up with a sword in that scenario, she wouldn’t mind reenacting the entire scene. End credits included.
Behind her, Ayesha shuffled along like she was trailing a funeral procession. Her sunglasses hid most of her face, but not the slump of her shoulders.
Zara sighed theatrically. “Could you try not to look like you’re auditioning for a Sad Widows of Bollywood calendar? You’re killing my vibe.”
Ayesha glared half-heartedly. “You’re the one who put the Ferris wheel images in my head. Do you know what it’s like trying to walk after that?” She looked like she wanted to lie down in the middle of the sidewalk and let traffic finish the job.
“Sweetheart, I live in my head. It’s gorgeous up there.” Zara flicked her ponytail. “Besides, you should thank me. At least now you have standards.”
A cluster of boys loitering outside the library immediately swiveled towards them like meerkats. Zara didn’t even look at them, she just raised her middle finger casually, the way a queen dismisses her subjects. One of them tripped over his backpack and went down like a sack of bricks.
“Subtle,” Ayesha muttered.
“Necessary,” Zara replied sweetly. “If I let them think they have a chance, next thing you know, one of them’s writing me poetry about my smile in the moonlight. Pass.”
They kept moving, their heels clicking against the pavement in imperfect rhythm: Zara’s deliberate staccato vs. Ayesha’s half-dead shuffle. Two professors passed by, and one of them nearly dropped his coffee while trying to sneak a glance at Zara’s jeans. She shot him a smile so sharp it shaved ten points off his IQ.
“Honestly,” she said under her breath, “the male faculty are worse than the undergrads. At least the boys are obvious about it. These old men think they’re being subtle.”
“Maybe they just like your bootcut,” Ayesha mumbled.
“Please.” Zara smirked. “They don’t just like it. They adore it. Don’t act like you don’t dress sexy for the attention.”
Ayesha groaned, covering her face with one hand. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
“What? Walking into the coffee shop to casually extract classified intel about Bharath’s whereabouts through the grapevine?” Zara grinned. “Aish, this is espionage. James Bond wishes he had my contour.”
“Espionage ... Yea right,” Ayesha repeated flatly. “You’re literally planning to eavesdrop on gossip girls over lattes.”
“And?” Zara purred. “All wars are won with intelligence.”
“Didn’t you say you wanted a matcha?”
“Yuck ... That was just to get your sorry but sexy ass to follow me.”
“You’re insufferable.”
Zara’s ponytail swished like a royal seal of approval. “And irresistible. Don’t forget that part.”
The Student Center coffee shop was chaos in peak latte form.
Smash Mouth’s “All Star” blared faintly from the speakers (again), the espresso machine coughed like a dying lawnmower, and the entire room smelled like burnt beans, and the spicy ghost of Wild Stone cologne, because every boy and his TA on campus had decided to drench themselves in it.
“Hey bhagwan,” Ayesha gagged as a trio of pledges shuffled past, each leaving a fog of Wild Stone so thick it could have triggered a fire alarm. “Did the campus bookstore start giving it away with every purchase?”
Zara fanned her face dramatically with the latest Seventeen magazine. “Darling, it’s biological warfare. Forget Y2K. Wild Stone is how humanity ends.”
Behind the counter, Jason the barista - a long time admirer of Zara with shaggy hair and a goatee too patchy to commit - leaned forward, trying way too hard to catch their attention. “Ladies, ladies,” he drawled. “Here to sample the new shipment of hazelnut syrup? I just imported it from ... umm ... Ohio?”
“You import from Ohio?” asked Ayesha, puzzled.
“Wow.” Zara blinked at him, deadpan. “Do I look like I came here to risk my pancreas for a Nutella knockoff, Jason?”
“I scalded my tongue testing this for quality control ... but for you my Zara? Worth it.”
“Honey, your tongue is worthless anyway,” Zara deadpanned as she batted away his compliment with the elegance of a wrecking ball.
Jason clutched his chest, like she’d shot him with a musket. “Harsh, my angel. You wound me. But uh ... if either of you ever want a free scone sometime, I can -”
“Yes, Jason,” Zara cut in, patting his hand like he was a golden retriever. “Put it on my tab. Which I’ll never pay. Because you’ll never actually charge me.”
Jason turned pink, muttered something about “strong female leads,” and stumbled away. Ayesha rolled her eyes so hard she nearly sprained something. “You terrify him.”
“I nurture him,” Zara corrected sweetly. “Like a bonsai tree. A very stupid, floppy bonsai tree. He’ll thank me later for it.”
At the table next to them, two freshmen were whispering loudly enough to be heard in Alabama.
“I heard,” one said reverently, “that Marisol and Sarah kissed Bharath so hard after the Diwali show, his test scores went up.”
“I heard he touched the library computers once, and they’ve never crashed since.”
“I heard he walked on the fountain water after the Diwali show!”
“So he’s basically brown Jesus?”
“Wasn’t Jesus always brown?”
Ayesha buried her face in her hands. “Why are people like this?”
Zara tilted her head. “Honestly? I’m impressed. The myth grows daily. By spring semester, people are going to say he built Tech Tower with his bare hands.”
“I heard he’s going to build a replica of Tech Tower with his bare hands! He’s already submitted the blueprints.”
Ayesha and Zara both facepalmed when they heard that.
Zara couldn’t take this anymore. She interrupted the enthusiastic group to ask if any of them knew where Bharath was.
“You desire to know the location of the Prince of Pleasure? The King of Smith? The...” asked the sophomore who had become famous for writing Haikus about Bharath.
“No. Just Bharath, thank you very much.”
The group reared back as if Zara had insulted them all.
“Yes, she means the Prince of Pleasure,” interjected Ayesha who could see that things were going south with this group. “Could you please tell us where he may be now?” she asked sweetly.
“We spied on the holy one near the fountain at the Student Center with his beautific goddess Marisol a little while back,” said pasty Haiku writing person.
“K. Thanks ... bye nerds,” said Zara as they grabbed their drinks and made a hasty exit. Jason called hopefully after Zara, “Hey, uh ... if you’re free Friday, there’s an acoustic set in the amphitheater, I can-”
“I’m busy honey,” Zara said. “Maybe next year.”
“Why are you so cruel with him?” asked Ayesha.
“It’s necessary, sweetie. Always leave them wanting more,” said Zara as they hurried out.
They cut across the quad, Zara strutting like she was in a Tommy Hilfiger ad, Ayesha trailing like someone who hadn’t emotionally recovered from lunchtime Ferris wheel talk. As they approached the fountain, Zara stopped dead. She grabbed Ayesha’s arm and yanked her behind the fountain. They crouched in unison, pretending to study a flyer about Squirrel Awareness Week (cartoon squirrel in sunglasses: Stay Nuts, Stay Safe!). Zara peeked around the edge like a spy in a bad teen movie.
“Subtle,” Ayesha muttered, clutching her coffee.
“Shut it. We’re in recon aka spy mode,” Zara hissed, peeking around the stone edge like she was in Mission Impossible.
And then she saw them.
“There,” she whispered, voice electric.
Ayesha followed her gaze ... and her knees just about gave way.
Because across the courtyard, perfectly framed in the golden afternoon sun, were Bharath and Marisol. And they weren’t just talking.
Marisol had both hands twisted in his shirt, pulling him down as her mouth devoured his. Their bodies pressed tight, her legs slightly raised behind her like they were frozen in a movie still. Her curls spilled down her back in a wild halo, one hand drifting to his waist and gripping hard.
Bharath’s hand? Firmly cupping her backside. With both hands! After a while, they melted apart, breathless and laughing.
Zara blinked. “Okay, that was... intense.”
Ayesha whimpered. Actually whimpered.
They ducked again as Marisol pulled back and purred, “Don’t keep us waiting, papi.” Marisol then turned around slowly, sashaying away with a runway-level strut, the kind that wasn’t just practiced ... it was divine. Her hips rolled like caramel waves and yet there was no cellulite there. Her butt ... was criminal.
Even Zara stared. “Sweet. Merciful. God.”
Ayesha made a strangled noise. “That’s ... that’s not fair. She didn’t look like that at the beginning of the semester!”
Zara was ready with a comeback, but the words never came. Because suddenly, it wasn’t funny anymore. Watching Marisol arch against him wasn’t a gag to mock. Zara nodded sagely. “Apparently Sarah and the other girls in the gang do Yoga every morning. Something called Apsara training.”
Marisol gave one final over-the-shoulder smile, biting her bottom lip like she knew Bharath was watching her go. Then she disappeared into the academic building like nothing had happened.
Bharath stood there for a moment, swaying slightly. Zara and Ayesha did too. When Marisol finally disappeared they found that they were clutching each other tightly. When they realized they were too near each other they immediately drifted apart.
Zara found a reflective window nearby and turned slightly, inspecting her rear with calculated confidence.
“Mine’s good,” she murmured. “Round. Perky. Tight. 10/10.”
Ayesha hesitated and then joined her. She turned, shifted and evaluated her own butt in the reflection. Hers was amazing. She’d always known that. But next to Marisol? It suddenly felt ... average.
“We have to work on this,” Zara declared as if they were prepping for battle. “Lunges. Resistance bands. Yoga or pilates or something demonic. We need to look up what this Apsara training is.”
“Do you think he notices stuff like that?” Ayesha asked quietly.
Zara snorted. “Did you see his face? Girl, he looked like he was having a religious experience.”
“God,” Ayesha whispered. “He didn’t even touch her that much and she looked like she was going to combust.”
“That’s not just chemistry,” Zara said thoughtfully. “That’s craft.”
Then they noticed him moving. Bharath turned, shook himself slightly - like waking from a trance - and started walking.
“Quick follow him,” hissed Zara.
“I know ... you didn’t have to tell me,” snapped Ayesha.
They followed him as he crossed Techwood Drive, headed past the parking lot, and slipped out a side gate that led... off-campus.
Zara frowned. “Where’s he going?”
“Do you think he’s meeting someone?” Ayesha asked, her voice hollow again.
Zara’s jaw tightened. “Only one way to find out.”
Ayesha hesitated. “You’re not serious.”
Zara was already moving. “Bitch, I wore these jeans for a reason.”
When Bharath reached the edge of campus, Ayesha asked shakily, “Shouldn’t we give up when he leaves campus? That is the rule right?”
“Aish, this just went from moderately interesting to extremely interesting. Do you really want to give up now?” asked Zara disbelievingly.
“I mean, don’t we like have an actual life to get back to?” asked Ayesha hesitatingly.
“You mean the one where you’ve been moping like you forgot to cash in a lottery winning ticket?”
“I mean...”
“Come on, Aish. We’re on a mission. This is Operation: Spy on Bharath. Bharath for Shiva’s sake!”
Ayesha stopped complaining as they prowled like sexy panthers in tight jeans behind a joyously oblivious Bharath. After all he was now hot enough to make two heartbreakers crawl behind trash cans and campus sculptures just to watch his butt.
Ayesha hissed as she ducked behind a bush outside the gate. “Why is it so round now?”
“I don’t know,” Zara whispered back, squinting. “When did he get a butt lift? That wasn’t there in August.”
“I’d remember.”
They exchanged a look and clutched each other again as Bharath paused suddenly mid-stride, like he sensed them. Their eyes went wide. When he suddenly turned, they dived to the ground. Zara hit the concrete in her tight jeans with a grunt. Ayesha toppled after, both girls splayed ungracefully in the dirt between a broken vending machine and a recycling bin, somehow still holding onto their cups of coffee.
“This is the least ladylike I’ve ever been,” Ayesha muttered, brushing dirt off her chest.
“Shut up. It’s all part of the job. Do you think Catherine Zeta Jones would complain? We’re spies,” Zara said, smearing lip gloss on her wrist in the process. “Sexy spies.”
They were safe ... for now. They peeked around the vending machine again and hurried behind to catch up to Bharath. When they caught up to him, they found that he was standing near the MARTA station entrance. Not going inside. Just ... waiting.
Waiting?
Zara frowned. “Who waits outside the station like it’s a coffee date?”
“Sarah?” Ayesha guessed. “She’s the most grounded.”
Zara shook her head. “No way. She’d have just kissed him on the platform and dragged him away to do unspeakable things already.”
Before they could say more their train of thought was interrupted when they spied on a familiar figure -
“Oh no,” Ayesha whispered.
She had arrived. They both saw her at once. The girl from the Diwali dance. The one who danced with their group. The one who had set the stage on fire. She was so hot she had been mistaken for some Bollywood debutante.
Although she was petite she had beautiful toned legs showcased shamelessly by a flared mini-skirt. A clingy pink crop top struggled valiantly to contain breasts that didn’t even pretend to be polite. Her hair was bouncing with every step. Her smile - nuclear.
Zara’s jaw went slack.
Ayesha protested. “I feel flat. And I have DDs”
“Imagine how I feel...,” Zara muttered, clutching her chest. “I have C-cups and I feel like a pancake.”
“And her butt -”
“Looks like a filter.”
Ayesha nodded solemnly. “Like, an actual filter. And not even a grainy one. The glossy kind from Elle.”
The girl was striding from the MARTA station like she was doing a print shoot for Cosmo Girl, each step practically whistling with confidence. And standing there waiting for her was the boy who was never supposed to be this kind of heartthrob.
Bharath.
Quiet. Awkward. Code monkey. Who once tripped over a traffic cone trying to open the CoC door too fast. And now? Now he was waiting outside a train station like some kind of real-life Notebook protagonist - before that movie even existed.
Zara narrowed her eyes. “Who does that? Who waits for someone like it’s 1954 and they just got off a steam train from Paris?”
Ayesha snorted. “It’s the MARTA. No one waits outside the MARTA.”
“Exactly. I’ve had guys lose interest in me during a five-minute walk from the Student Center. But this man is out here posting up like her escort.”
Zara scoffed. “Hot guys don’t do that. They don’t even call back after the first date.”
Ayesha mumbled bitterly, “One of them told me he’d ‘page me later’ and then never returned my beeper message.”
Zara groaned. “At least you got a pager number. Mine told me to ‘ask around’ if I wanted to find him again.”
They were spiraling now, slumped on the edge of the steps, watching this wildly unfair scene unfold.
“He’s probably escorting her from visiting home or something,” Ayesha said, voice small. “Like ... He’s going to carry her bag and ask her how school was.”
Zara’s face twisted. “That’s disgustingly sweet.”
“It’s actually offensive,” Ayesha agreed. “The way he’s just standing there. Looking all ... sincere.”
Zara’s lip curled. “With his floppy hair and his rolled-up sleeves and his cute butt and his - what the hell, Aish?”
“He’s nice,” Ayesha whispered. “And he shouldn’t be. Not after being with Marisol and Sarah. You’d think he’d be arrogant by now.”
“Or at least emotionally unavailable,” Zara said. “But no. He’s out here doing boyfriend duties for his girlfriend’s sister like it’s a part-time job.”
They both paused.
Ayesha frowned. “Wait ... are we sure that’s Marisol’s sister?”
Zara nodded. “Yeah. I heard her and Marisol refer to each other as sisters. They look kind of alike.”
Ayesha tilted her head. “No, they don’t. Mia looks like a crazy and horny scientist genetically engineered her in some lab.”
“They vibe alike,” Zara said.
“They don’t.”
Zara blinked. “Okay, well, they dress alike.”
Ayesha raised an eyebrow.
Zara exhaled. “Whatever. She’s here, and he’s waiting like he’s about to hand her a bouquet of carnations and a handwritten poem.”
They both sat there in stunned silence, still processing what they were witnessing. Bharath, the same guy who once nervously asked a professor how to access the UNIX lab, was now the boyfriend of two campus goddesses and a personality gentle enough to escort one girlfriend’s little sister back from the MARTA station.
And he looked happy doing it. Like it was nothing.
Zara muttered, “I hate that I’m impressed.”
Ayesha whispered, “I hate that it’s hot.”
Zara buried her face in her hands. “He’s nice. And somehow has two literal goddesses attached to him like limpets.”
Ayesha’s voice cracked. “I don’t even know how to deal with that.”
“Nice guys don’t get harems,” Zara snapped. “Nice guys get ignored. Or turned into poets with long beards.”
Zara sighed. “It’s 1998. We’re supposed to be entering the digital millennium. Not the age of faithful boyfriends who give oral and carry emotional stability.”
Ayesha giggled despite herself. “Do you think he does give oral?”
Zara didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely. And probably really well. Have you seen how satisfied Sarah and Marisol look? Our boy’s got to have mad skillz with a z.”
They stared again as Bharath checked his watch and smiled just like he was genuinely looking forward to seeing his girlfriend’s sister. Zara slumped onto the concrete beside the stairwell.
“He’s ruining men for me.”
“Same.”
They waited as Mia headed closer to Bharath. They didn’t know that their whole afternoon was about to be upended in a flash.
“Bharath!”
Mia’s voice carried across the plaza, a shrill, joyful cry that seemed to cut through everything else. Zara and Ayesha’s heads whipped toward the sound, their pulses quickening, breath caught in their throats.
It almost looked like Mia was flying. Like actual flight. She dropped her bag mid-step and launched herself into Bharath’s arms with the precision of a gymnast and the hunger of a starved woman. And he caught her without stumbling.
And his hands ... his hands found her bare ass under that scandalously short skirt. The girls froze when they realized she was wearing nothing but a thong. His fingers flexed as if by instinct, and Mia adjusted herself higher against him, practically guiding his palms into the perfect grip.
Zara made a strangled sound. “She ... she made sure he had a good hold.”
“She adjusted him!” Ayesha squeaked, clutching Zara’s wrist as her jaw dropped. “Did she just -”
“Oh my god,” Zara whispered, voice tipping toward panic. “She’s dry humping him. In public, Aish!”
Mia’s legs locked around Bharath’s waist like a python, and the two of them staggered back against a pillar. Zara and Ayesha scrambled sideways until they found a perfect vantage point. From there they had a clear line of sight, and what they saw left them both holding on to each other like shipwreck survivors.
Mia was relentless. Her hips rolled against his in smooth, sinuous arcs, and her mouth claimed his with an obscene kind of urgency. The wet sounds of their kisses floated across the courtyard, echoing against the stone like a soundtrack to some forbidden film.
Zara’s jaw dropped. “What the hell is she doing to Sarah and Marisol’s boyfriend? She’s literally climbing him like a jungle gym!”
Ayesha moaned aloud when Bharath lowered his face and kissed along Mia’s collarbone, teeth grazing the swells of her breasts where her top barely held.
“He-he just- “ Ayesha whispered, trembling.
“He nipped her breasts,” Zara confirmed, breathless.
“And she arched into it.”
Mia’s moans carried across the plaza, a shameless soundtrack to the rhythm of her hips. Bharath held her like she weighed nothing, one hand buried beneath her skirt, the other locked around her back as though she was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.
They weren’t just making out. They were defying decency, gravity, and everything Zara and Ayesha thought they understood about foreplay.
When the kiss finally broke - after what felt like an eternity - Mia slid down his body with a sigh, her legs trembling slightly as she adjusted her top. Bharath brushed a curl from her cheek, kissed her temple. And they just ... started walking, hand in hand like nothing happened. Like the rest of the world didn’t exist.
Zara and Ayesha stared after them, still clinging to each other, breath ragged.
“W-We have to follow,” Ayesha croaked.
“We-we-we don’t have a choice,” Zara rasped.
They stayed half a block behind, ducking behind pillars and lampposts as Bharath and Mia strolled hand in hand. She was bouncing on her toes, whispering things into his ear. He kept laughing as if this was just a normal Monday for them. They turned off the sidewalk suddenly - down a narrow alley that ran between a textbook outlet and a storage unit.
Zara frowned. “Where are they -”
Mia yanked Bharath into the alley, spun him against the wall.
He laughed, startled. “Mia ... chellam, what are you -”
She cut him off with a kiss. “Please mi amor. I need a dose. Right now! I haven’t been able to think straight all day.”
“What? But we’re in public, baby!”
“I need it, Bharath. Now. I can’t study like this. I need at least one ... but I know you’re good for more.”
“I just kissed you for five minutes -”
“That was a sip,” she whispered, mouth at his neck. “I need a gulp. Many gulps. Big ones.”
Zara and Ayesha flattened themselves against the alley wall, peering through a gap in the wood lattice, hands clasped so tightly their knuckles turned white
Mia didn’t hesitate. She climbed him again, scaling his body with absurd, impossible flexibility. One foot braced on a milk crate, the other swung over his hip, her thighs tightening around him like she’d been designed for this exact posture.
“Is she a cheerleader?” Zara whispered wondrously.
“She must be,” Ayesha breathed. “How are her legs doing that?”
Mia’s skirt was hiked up completely with no shame or hesitation as she revealed just the glimpse of a thong that should have been declared illegal.
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