Their Wonder Years: Season 1: Fall 1998
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
43: Operation Sacred Flame
Coming of Age Sex Story: 43: Operation Sacred Flame - 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
Neither Zara nor Ayesha had slept all night. They sat cross-legged on the floor of their dorm room, surrounded by glossy fashion magazines, mostly-untouched textbooks, and the empty carcass of a shared pint of Cherry Garcia. Their eyes were glittery and fevered as they stared at each other.
Ayesha was hugging a pillow to her chest, her voice low and urgent. “They were glowing, Zara. I don’t mean good-skin glowing. I mean like-divinely f-”
“I know,” Zara hissed, as she jumped up and started pacing in circles like a trapped jaguar. “Sarah looks like a Bond girl. Marisol is sex and softness in one body. And that little sister-”
“Mia,” Ayesha breathed, eyes wide.
“She’s a baby,” Zara snapped. “But she already moves like she knows exactly what men want.”
“One man,” Ayesha muttered.
He was the problem. Bharath. The guy everything and everyone just ... kind of orbited around.
There was no more denying it now - not after what they saw in the library or after watching how the others treated him. They laughed with him, leaned on him, almost ... worshipped him, and it didn’t even look weird. The kind of worship that made them feel like her entire life up to this point had been a bad Instagram filter - before Instagram even existed.
“This is it,” Zara said suddenly, spinning to face her best friend. “This is our moment. Finals be damned.”
“Wait-”
“No, listen. GPA is a social construct.”
Ayesha stared at her. “Zara.”
“We can retake classes. We can tell our parents we were adjusting to college life. But this? Bharath? That group? That energy?” Zara’s voice cracked. “That’s the real education.”
A beat of silence passed. Then Ayesha nodded slowly. “You’re right.”
They shared a look as they made an unspoken-but solid pact. A sorority-level blood oath. Somewhere out there a sorority fairy wrote down their pact in stone. From this moment on, nothing else mattered.
“We need some thinking music.”
Ayesha played some music that sounded like heist music on her computer. She set Winamp to her favorite skin to make sure that it vibed with the current tension in the room.
“Perfect. Is that Mission Impossible?”
“Yeah.”
“God! I just love how in sync we are, bitch”
“Okay. Let’s focus now.”
Step 1 was obvious.
“Drop everyone,” Ayesha said, sharp now. “No more clout-chasers. No more backwards-hat frat boys grabbing my ass at parties and calling it ‘vibing.’ I’m done being that girl.”
Zara nodded like a general approving battle plans. “Good. Because that girl was never real. She was a cardboard cutout of you. And look where it got us.”
Step 2. That was trickier. Who was their in ... to friendship nirvana.
“Camila?” Zara suggested. “She’s hot like us. She’s confident and has that total Queen Bee energy. She might be our in.”
“But she’s also dangerous,” Ayesha mused. “She already has Jorge. Even if she was fine with us I bet she tells Jorge everything. And you know how he saw us both badmouth Bharath in August.”
“Okay, what about Nandita?”
“Too sweet. She might forgive us but she’s tight with Ravi now. And he hates us both more than the others.”
“LaTasha?”
“She’d eat us alive!”
They sat back, thinking.
“What about blackmail?” Zara asked after a pause. “Mia clearly wasn’t supposed to be there. If we just-”
“No,” Ayesha cut in, startling herself. “No blackmail. Not on them. Not on him.”
Zara raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t know what he is, okay?” Ayesha whispered. “But he’s not someone you trap. He’s the kind of guy who... changes people. I felt it when he looked at me yesterday. I felt like ... like I wasn’t disgusting. For the first time in months.”
Zara froze. For once, she had no comeback. They sat together as they mulled strategies as the music reached its crescendo.
Just before the final drum beat Zara whispered, “This music is so awesome. I finally got it. So we fix it.”
“Rebrand?”
“No. Apologize. For real.”
Ayesha flinched.
Zara continued, voice trembling but sure. “We go back to basics. No pretending. No flirting. No angles. We beg if we have to. And we start with the girls.”
“Which one?”
Zara’s eyes glinted. “All of them.”
The alarm on Zara’s alarm clock chirped at 5:37 a.m.
She slapped it silent, heart already thudding with the kind of manic purpose that only obsession could conjure. The room was still dark, save for the strip of dull hallway light leaking through the bottom of the door. Ayesha sat up on her mattress across the room. Her hair was already in a tight braid and she had already applied her eyeliner.
“You ready?” Zara whispered.
Ayesha nodded, zipping up her cropped black leather jacket. “Do I look like a spy?”
“You look like a Bond girl about to ruin a marriage,” Zara said, grabbing her own bomber. “We’re not just ninjas. We’re stealth personified. Sexy spies bitch!”
“Sexy spies forever!”
They padded out the door three minutes later with no makeup smudges, no mismatched socks. Their makeup game was on point as usual. Lip gloss - check, smoky eyes - check, and black-on-black everything - check and double check. Operation: Spy on Bharath: The Saga Continues was in motion. The eagle had landed.
Zara pulled a Bic pen from her pocket, whispering into it like a walkie-talkie as she exited the dorm. “Agent Z to Agent A. Target residence is one click away from us. Requesting permission for Operation Sexy Spies Forever for a go.”
Ayesha saluted with two fingers, deadly serious. “Copy that Agent Z. Operation is a go. Agent A engaging stealth mode. Roger, 10-4 and over and out.”
She was so immersed in her reply that she promptly crab-walked straight into a bike rack. The clang echoed through the courtyard like a church bell.
“Smooth,” Zara hissed.
“Shut up, I’m still hot,” Ayesha whispered back, trying to untangle her leather jacket from the spokes.
According to them, stealth originally meant looking like shadows and blending in. But by the time they reached the edge of campus, the illusion was already cracking.
“Should’ve worn sneakers,” Ayesha muttered, wobbling in her chunky Steve Madden platforms.
“You told me heels make us look more ... mysterious.”
“Yeah, mysterious as in: why is that spy limping?”
They practiced “spy walking” for a block - low knees, hunched shoulders - until Zara caught their reflection in a convenience-store window. “We don’t look like spies. We look like constipated flamingos.”
“Fine,” Ayesha sighed. “Normal walking mode.”
“Sexy normal walking mode,” Zara corrected.
“Right. Sexy flamingos.”
“Nope ... sexy spy flamingos.”
“You’re so on point babe!”
They made it two more blocks before campus security drove by in a golf cart. Both girls dove behind a bush.
“Why are we hiding? We didn’t do anything,” Ayesha whispered.
“It’s called cover, Agent A. First rule of spycraft.”
The guard didn’t even glance at them, too busy sipping his Waffle House coffee. When he rolled past, Zara stood up with leaves in her hair.
Ayesha bit back a laugh. “Stealth level: zero.”
They resumed the march, adrenaline making them giddy.
“Code word if things go wrong?” Ayesha asked.
“Banana.”
“Banana? That’s stupid.”
“Fine. What do you want? Platypus? Papaya?”
“Banana’s fine,” Ayesha sighed. “But if you yell it during sex one day, I’m out.”
By the time they reached the neighborhood streets near 10th, dawn had painted the sky in streaks of pink and orange. The world was just waking up - milk crates clattered on porches, sprinklers hissed across tiny yards. Every sound felt deafening.
Then came a slurred voice from across the street. “Dang mamacitas.”
A hobo leaning against a lamppost leered, taking in their skin-tight jeans and exposed midriffs with glassy eyes. “Damn. Y’all be robbing banks or breakin’ hearts?”
Zara rolled her eyes. “Ignore him.”
“I think I just heard my ovaries die,” Ayesha muttered.
“Way to ruin the vibes loser!”
They were shaken but not yet stirred, so they didn’t stop. Not now. Not when they were this close to the epicenter of everything. Luckily they didn’t seem to attract any more unwanted attention on the way to Sarah’s house. (They had followed the gang back to the house last night after they dropped off Mia at the MARTA station).
Sarah’s house was a modest little two-bedroom on 10th Street with a narrow yard and a wooden gate. The kind of place no one would look at twice. Completely unassuming-just like Sarah, before she’d transformed into - well her.
Zara paused at the creaking iron gate, wincing as it shrieked in protest.
“You’d think the goddess of Georgia Tech could afford some WD-40,” she hissed.
But then they were in. On the lawn with their knees bent, stepping carefully around the house looking for a way to peek inside.
There was a light on in the kitchen. It flickered yellow but they noticed that there was movement inside based on the long shadows thrown against the blinds.
They edged around the perimeter of the house, crouching low beside a hedge that had clearly never been trimmed. It shielded them just enough to peek inside the lit window. At first, what they saw nearly made their knees buckle.
Bharath was ... cooking.
Ayesha slapped a hand over her mouth to keep from squealing. “Oh my god. He’s at the stove. He cooks too?”
Zara squinted. “Is he ... flipping pancakes?”
He was. Shirtless, hair still damp from a shower, wearing nothing but low-slung sweatpants that showed the sharp V of his hips. Sarah sat on the counter in a tiny white tee that barely covered her breasts, her long legs swinging idly as she stole strawberries from a bowl. Marisol leaned against Bharath’s back, chin hooked over his shoulder, wearing an even smaller cropped tee and a thong that left nothing to the imagination.
Ayesha leaned closer to the glass, her voice breaking into a whisper. “Since when is he ... cut like that? Look at his back. That’s not just a computer geek’s back, Zara. That’s a swimmer’s back.”
Zara’s nails dug into the hedge. “His shoulders! Hey Ram! He’s even got those little lines? The ones Calvin Klein models have?”
They stared, thunderstruck. Neither of them had ever noticed before. He’d always slouched around campus in baggy jeans and some tired polo shirt like a guy headed to Comp Sci lab. Forgettable. Invisible. But here ... shirtless, muscles flexing as he flipped a pancake, sweatpants clinging to his hips, he looked like something out of their wet dreams.
Ayesha hissed, “If he just wore clothes that actually fit, and maybe got a damn haircut, every girl on campus would throw herself at him.”
“Are you insane?” Zara snapped, panic creeping into her voice. “They already do. Half the girls in our dorm still doodle his name in their notebooks like it’s middle school.”
“Yeah, but they don’t see him,” Ayesha shot back. “Not like this. Shirtless? Hair damp? Muscles actually visible? Forget about it. He’d be untouchable.”
Zara grabbed her arm, eyes wide. “And then what happens when someone like Melina gets serious? She’s already obsessed with him, Aish. Obsessed. The girl hasn’t even seen him like this and she still hangs around campus moping about why he won’t pay attention to her.”
Ayesha’s lips twisted. “Melina’s hot though. Like, cover-model hot. If she actually gets her claws in-”
“She’ll burn the whole place down,” Zara hissed. “That girl’s crazy. I heard she once broke a dude’s Walkman in half because he made her wait in line at Waffle House. Imagine her with this as her fixation.”
Ayesha blinked, then laughed softly. “So you’re saying ... the only thing protecting us is his tragic fashion sense?”
“Yes!” Zara whispered, panicked. “His baggy jeans are the last defense we have before total girl-stampede Armageddon.”
Ayesha whimpered. “They look like an ad for sin.”
“And breakfast,” Zara added, eyes glassy. “Like a lingerie commercial but ... for pancakes?”
It was too much. Sarah laughed as Bharath tried to shoo her hand away from the strawberries, but she only popped one into his mouth. He rolled his eyes and kissed her sticky fingers. Marisol reached past him to pour coffee into mugs, deliberately brushing her breasts against his arm. He smiled and kissed her temple without even looking.
They moved around the kitchen like they’d done it a hundred mornings before. Easy. Intimate. Familiar in a way that made Zara’s chest ache.
“Look at them,” she whispered. “Like a family.”
“They look...” Ayesha swallowed hard. “Complete.”
For a moment, it wasn’t lust. It was something heavier. Envy, yes, but also a longing they hadn’t even realized they had. To be loved like that. To be part of something that casual and sacred at once.
Ayesha pressed a fist to her chest. “I think my uterus just ... clapped.”
Zara made a small choking sound. “Look at them. Their bodies don’t even ... jiggle wrong. Every inch is perfect.”
Ayesha couldn’t tear her eyes away from Marisol’s thong disappearing between sculpted cheeks, the way her muscles flexed as she braced herself. “Look at Sarah! She’s bendy like a gymnast. Like her spine doesn’t even have bones.”
They were so lost in the scene that the shift caught them off guard.
One second, Marisol was sipping her coffee. The next, Sarah had tugged Bharath toward her by his waistband, pressing a sticky kiss to his jaw. He chuckled, tried to turn back to the stove, but Marisol plucked the spatula out of his hand and set the pan aside.
“Oh no,” Zara hissed. “They’re - they’re switching modes.”
“From food to porn!” Ayesha croaked. “Is this what they mean by food porn?”
“No, I think that’s when they eat food off each other ... like Kim Basinger in that movie,” Zara whispered, her voice quivering as she stared at the trio inside the kitchen.”
“I think I want that,” Ayesha said, dazed.
“Shh focus ... I’m getting hungry now. Pass me that protein bar, Agent A. Strawberry, like Sarah just had. For morale.”
And then it happened.
Marisol pressed Bharath against the counter, kissing him deep, her tiny tee riding up to show the bare swell of her ass. Sarah slid off the counter, dropped to her knees, and tugged his sweats down in one practiced move.
“Ohmygod,” Ayesha whispered, shaking.
Zara’s eyes nearly bulged. “Is that - is that his dick?! Holy Shiva on a stick!”
Sarah licked her lips, looked up at him with those wide green eyes, and swallowed him down like she’d been starving.
Zara slapped a hand over her own mouth to stop the sound that wanted to escape. Ayesha dug her nails into Zara’s arm, shaking her head frantically.
“It’s like watching ... Cinemax,” Zara breathed, eyes glued to the window, “but Cinemax never went this hard. Cinemax didn’t prepare us.”
“Ohmygod,” Ayesha whispered, voice hoarse.
“I-I-I-I” Zara swallowed. “Is that real? That can’t be! He’s still going. How?”
Ayesha was speechless. She moaned slightly thinking about what it would feel like inside her.
“Ohmygod, look at Sarah - she’s choking on him - she’s literally gagging and she still looks like she’s in heaven.”
Zara’s mouth fell open. “If that were me I’d be clawing the walls begging for air. But she’s ... she’s smiling.”
Ayesha’s voice cracked. “I’d hold my own damn throat open if it meant he kept looking at me like that.”
They stared at each other, horrified and aroused in equal measure.
Ayesha’s throat went dry. “They’re not just ... doing it,” she whispered. “THEY’RE DOING IT TIMES 1000.”
Zara felt it too - the rhythm wasn’t random, it was ritual. Every gasp, every whisper was a verse in a gospel she’d never heard before. Her chest thudded like someone had rung a damn temple bell in there. She grabbed Ayesha’s hand without realizing. Neither let go as they got closer and closer to each other.
They watched in awe as Bharath took just Marisol. She was bent forward, taken slow and deep until her gasps filled the room. They had never seen anyone with the kind of expression that Marisol had on her face at that moment. She climaxed so hard that she fell off the table screaming his name.
When Marisol gasped “más, más, más,” the sound of it carried through the glass.
Zara’s thighs pressed together involuntarily. “She’s begging like she doesn’t even care if the neighbors call the cops.”
Ayesha licked her lips without meaning to. “I’ve never begged for more in my life. I ... I think I’d be good at it.”
“You?” Zara whispered, shocked. “Miss Ice Queen Ayesha?”
“Shut up. You’re telling me you wouldn’t if you were Marisol right now?”
Zara didn’t answer. Ayesha saw her clench her thighs. “That’s right you would you slut.”
Zara whispered, “Only for him.”
Then Sarah took her place as she guided him inside her with practiced need, her whole body quaking as Marisol managed to recover and got up to kiss Bharath from behind.
They took turns. They switched positions. They encouraged each other like lovers and warriors both. There was no jealousy, no awkward fumbling-only an otherworldly choreography that made Ayesha’s thighs clench involuntarily.
Zara slapped both hands over her own mouth, eyes bugging out. “Are you seeing this? They’re literally running a relay race with orgasms!”
Ayesha dug her nails into Zara’s arm, voice cracking. “Stop talking or I’m going to come again just from watching.”
Zara whimpered, head knocking back against the hedge. “Same, Aish. Same. This isn’t porn. This is the Sex Olympics. And we didn’t even qualify.”
She counted under her breath as if they were recounting medal tallies. “Four for Sarah. Five for Marisol.”
“They’re keeping score?” Ayesha whispered. “Who does that? They climaxed that many times? Are they keeping score for the month? I haven’t climaxed that many times from sex in my whole life!”
The answer was obvious: these were people who had nothing to prove. They had transcended shame and made pleasure their reality.
And Bharath?
He didn’t bark orders. He didn’t pound or grope or perform. He guided. His touch was reverent. His voice was soft but commanding. Every time he whispered something-good girl, just like that, I’ve got you-one of them would shudder as if their souls had been touched.
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