Their Wonder Years: Season 1: Fall 1998
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
44: Two Girls and a God
Coming of Age Sex Story: 44: Two Girls and a God - 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
Tuesday classes were torture.
It wasn’t just because they were hard-though. Zara felt that Economics was definitely designed by sociopaths, but because her soul was elsewhere. While their bodies sat in lecture halls, their minds were still crouched behind Sarah’s hedge at dawn, thighs cramping, mascara running, watching gods at play.
Zara drifted through Introduction to Econ 101 like a ghost, the professor’s monotone about “market elasticity” dissolving into white noise. All she could think of was elasticity of another kind - the way Sarah’s legs had stretched across the kitchen counter while Bharath’s thick cock stretched out his women - over and over again.
Ayesha’s notebook was a crime scene of doodles: hearts, flames, and a very obvious stick-figure Bharath sandwiched between two voluptuous S and M’s. When her professor caught her, he frowned and sighed.
By 11:45 a.m., they were reunited outside the student center, both scowling and caffeine-deprived.
“I hate academia,” Ayesha muttered.
“Knowledge is oppression,” Zara agreed, sipping aggressively from her Diet Coke.
“But we can’t fail.”
“Nope.”
“Because that would defeat the whole purpose.”
“Exactly. No goddess ever begged her parents to let her take summer school.”
They exchanged a look of pained solidarity as they turned their eyes toward the dining hall.
“Will they be at Table 7?” Zara asked.
Ayesha nodded. “Like clockwork.”
They slipped in through the west entrance, scanned their ID cards, and made a lazy, zig-zagging path through the crowded buffet. It was all part of the act. Keep moving. Stay casual. Blend in like the background girls in a WB high school hallway shot.
And there they were. The whole entourage at Table 7.
Bharath was seated between Marisol and Sarah, as always-like some kind of emotional anchor. He wasn’t doing anything particularly spectacular. Just eating his lunch, listening to Tyrel rant about something, and laughing when Jorge teased Camila for taking too many plantains.
But the energy around them? Amazing as usual. Ayesha and Zara felt drawn in as if they were moths to a flame.
They noticed that Mia wasn’t there. LaTasha and Nandita had just arrived, greeting the group with soft hugs and easy laughter. Camila was mid-rant about someone in her class. Ravi was showing Sarah something in his notebook.
Zara and Ayesha sat two tables away with their food trays untouched.
“Why does it feel like they’re on their own frequency?” Zara whispered.
Ayesha’s eyes were fixed on Marisol’s hand-resting on Bharath’s thigh. Not possessive. Just ... there as if it belonged.
“I swear they’re glowing again.”
Then, mid-laughter, Bharath leaned between his girls, said something low-and both Sarah and Marisol blushed pink!
“Hey Agent Z. Something’s up,” Ayesha muttered.
“I concur, Agent A. Operation Sacred Flame is a go. The Eagle is landing again.”
Sure enough, a minute later, the three of them stood up-practically in sync. Bharath tucked away his folder. Marisol squeezed Nandita’s hand on the way out. Sarah whispered something to Camila that made her laugh and roll her eyes.
Then they were gone. Zara and Ayesha were already moving.
“Class?” Ayesha hissed as they reached the exit.
Zara scoffed. “Bullshit. He left a full plate of mashed potatoes. Nobody ditches carbs for class.”
They trailed the trio at a discreet distance. Not too close. Not too far. Just enough to catch the rhythm of their movements. They were walking away from campus back toward the residential blocks.
“Sarah’s house,” Ayesha guessed.
“That’s an affirmative Agent A. Use spy language, bitch!”
“Sorry Agent Z. The eagle has landed. 10-4. Over and out”
“Are we using that right?”
The closer they got, the more obvious it became. The way Marisol clutched her tote bag tighter. How Sarah’s lips twitched like she was fighting a smile. Bharath, ever calm, walked between them like a guardian. A king flanked by two queens returning to their court.
“He’s not even touching them,” Zara whispered.
“He doesn’t have to. They orbit him.”
At the house, Sarah fumbled for her keys while Marisol glanced nervously over her shoulder-like she was making sure no one was watching.
Too late, Zara thought, ducking behind the same hedge they’d hidden behind yesterday.
Ayesha followed, breath hot on her lips.
“They’re nervous,” she whispered. “Like something’s about to happen.”
“Or already happened.”
Zara wiped condensation off the corner of the window with a tissue from her purse and pressed her face just close enough to see inside.
The kitchen was dim, save for the soft glow of afternoon light. The blinds were half-drawn, casting dramatic slats of shadow over the space.
Sarah walked in first and immediately reached for the cabinet, pulling out three mugs as Marisol opened the fridge. Bharath said something and all three laughed.
Ayesha nudged Zara aside to peek. “They’re ... just making tea?”
“Yeah, but look at their body language. Something’s about to go down!”
It was true.
There was a tension in the air-not hostile, not angry. The atmosphere felt charged. Marisol kept brushing against Bharath’s side. Sarah’s fingers trembled slightly as she stirred honey into the mugs. Bharath stood by the table, shifting his weight from foot to foot like he was trying to stay grounded.
Then, tea forgotten, Marisol turned and kissed him passionately. Like she’d been holding her breath since lunch. Sarah watched with a smile as she awaited her turn. Soon she walked over, set down the mugs, and kissed Marisol-right on the cheek, then the jaw, then the corner of her mouth. Finally, she turned and kissed Bharath, with even more passion than Marisol if that was possible.
“Okay ... what the actual fuck,” Ayesha whispered.
“It’s happening! It’s finally happening!”
Bharath pressed his forehead to Sarah’s as Marisol leaned her head on his shoulder. They just stood there breathing together and holding each other as if they were recharging.
“I feel like I’m intruding,” Zara whispered.
“Same. Should we go?”
“Are you kidding me Agent A?”
They watched as Bharath murmured something to both girls-too soft to hear. Marisol nodded. Sarah took his hand as they walked out of the living room.
Zara and Ayesha huddled behind the hedge again, nestled in their now-familiar nook just below the kitchen window. The afternoon air was heavier than usual-warm, heady, humming with something they couldn’t name. Inside, all the lights were dimmed. The curtains were drawn where possible and they had lit up candles inside the living room.
There was a stillness to the space, like the quiet before a thunderstorm. The tea cups from earlier had been washed and dried. The table was cleared. The cushions had been moved off the couch. The setting was different. This wasn’t casual. This was deliberate. Ayesha and Zara had goosebumps all over as if the universe was telling them that they were about to have their minds blown.
Zara shifted, her breath catching. “Do you feel that?”
Ayesha nodded. “It’s like ... like the air itself is watching.”
Then Bharath entered the room-shirtless, barefoot, and completely transformed. There was no boyish awkwardness. No nerdy hesitation. He was all shadows and sharp edges, his shoulders flexing as he moved like a man possessed by divine purpose.
Behind him, Marisol walked in wearing nothing but a sheer wrap that clung to her hips like fog. Sarah followed, in lace and silk, her hair braided down her back like a ribbon of dark honey.
They weren’t giggling. They weren’t playacting.
Bharath circled them slowly, eyes dark and unreadable. His fingers brushed Marisol’s cheek, then Sarah’s chin-soft, almost tender.
Then his voice cut through the stillness.
“Strip.”
It wasn’t loud. But it landed like a thunderclap. Both girls obeyed instantly. Ayesha had to physically restrain Zara from removing her jacket. There was no shame in the way they undressed.
Zara could barely breathe. Ayesha’s fingers curled into the dirt beside her. “What ... is this?”
Marisol knelt first. Then Sarah followed. Bharath stood over them, commanding, calm. He didn’t need to shout. His gaze alone made them tremble.
Ayesha’s breath hitched. “Look at him - he’s ... he’s walking like some king, inspecting his queens.”
Zara nodded frantically. “More like a god. A god who doesn’t even know we exist.”
Ayesha was squashed up against her as Bharath spoke again. Zara didn’t even notice.
“You were greedy this morning,” he said to Marisol.
She nodded, eyes wide.
“And you didn’t ask before touching what didn’t belong to you,” he said to Sarah.
Sarah bowed her head.
Zara felt something shift in the pit of her stomach. This wasn’t about control. Not really. It was about honor and ceremony. Love rendered into structure.
“You’re mine,” Bharath said, his voice a growl now. “Say it.”
“I’m yours, mi amor,” Marisol gasped, trembling.
“I’m yours my love!” Sarah cried.
“I’m yours, Bharath,” said Ayesha and Zara without even realizing it. They were completely immersed in the ritual. They clutched at each other as Bharath stepped towards his girls.
It started with touch. Zara gasped as one hand pulled at Marisol’s hair. A slap across Sarah’s breasts that made her moan and lean into the impact. There were words murmured-some sharp, some adoring.
Ayesha whimpered with desire when he bent Marisol over the arm of the couch and spanked her repeatedly.
Ayesha dug her nails into Zara’s thigh. “He’s ... he’s not just spanking her. It’s like - like he’s writing poetry in bruises.”
“I want that to be me! Hey Bhagwan! I need this so bad Aish - I mean Agent A.”
“Me too babe - I mean Agent Z.”
Ayesha and Zara hugged each other, trembling with desire as Marisol begged Bharath for more. They had never felt arousal like this before in their lives. Each spank Bharath gave Marisol made them gasp with pleasure as if they were the ones in Marisol’s place.
Sarah played her part too-encouraging, whispering, helping. She caressed Marisol’s spine while Bharath marked her, then bent forward herself when it was her turn, shuddering with anticipation.
They called him sir, sometimes master; sometimes just Bharath, but the way they said it made the name feel ancient and holy.
Zara whimpered, her thighs clenched tight. “I think I just...”
“Me too,” Ayesha whispered. Neither of them looked at each other. There was no shame now. No need to explain. The pleasure wasn’t just physical. It was existential. Every cry from Marisol. Every sobbing gasp from Sarah. Every possessive growl from Bharath-it filled a hole inside them they hadn’t known was there.
This was apparently Sacred Tuesday based on what the girls were screaming. They were seeing God. Roleplay moments melted seamlessly into each other. At one point, Sarah was the pleading servant. Then Marisol became the disobedient schoolgirl. Then they were equals-rivals, sisters, bonded animals submitting together.
And Bharath?
He was not the shy Indian boy they once scoffed at in the dining hall. He was a god - in control. He didn’t need to dominate to take power, but to hold it. To protect them from themselves. To challenge them. To give them the release they craved but could never ask for.
Zara clutched Ayesha’s arm, whispering hot into her ear. “He’s not just moving - he’s sculpting them.”
Ayesha whimpered. “Bitch, I swear I’m gonna start crying if you say stuff like that.”
By the time the final act began, both girls were sprawled across the couch in a tangle of limbs and sweat and quiet laughter.
Bharath sat between them, breath ragged, their heads resting on his chest. Sarah’s arm was draped across his waist. Marisol lay between his legs, stroking his chest softly, eyes closed.
Then they got up in unison and nursed him together. Marisol rested her breast against his cheek, cradling him like a lover and a priestess. Sarah mirrored her on the other side. Their fingers brushed as they smiled at him. Bharath nuzzled into both of them like a king returning from war.
Zara sobbed softly as Ayesha gripped her hand. They had both climaxed multiple times. And yet, they felt empty. Not from lack of pleasure. But from the unbearable beauty of what they had just witnessed that they were not a part of.
Zara clutched her chest. “Aish, I can’t breathe. He’s - he’s art in motion. And they’re his canvas.”
Ayesha smacked her shoulder, voice breaking. “Stop, bitch! You’re making me come from poetry.”
Marisol whispered something to Sarah causing them to giggle. Bharath whispered something back, and they melted. And then they all drifted off to sleep, right there on the couch. A heap of heat and flesh and love, wrapped in silence.
Zara finally pulled away from the window, her face wet with sweat and tears. She sat back on her heels. Ayesha joined her as neither said anything for a long, long time.
Then Ayesha whispered:
“I want that. I need that. I need HIM!”
Zara nodded. “Me too.”
Ayesha looked down at her ruined underwear. “We’re gonna need more laundry detergent.”
Zara laughed softly. “And a new religion.”
Zara and Ayesha didn’t even pretend that they wanted to go to class that day. They loitered near Sarah’s block like junkies waiting for a fix, peeking through the blinds every ten minutes for Bharath to reappear.
When Bharath finally appeared-fresh, hair damp, shirt clinging to his chest-they both gasped like fangirls at a boyband concert. He kissed Sarah and Marisol tenderly, tucked the blanket around them, and then walked out alone.
“Holy shit,” Ayesha whispered, clutching Zara’s arm. “He’s the fucking Pied Piper and we’re those dopey kids that follow him around.”
Zara nodded mutely, already following. They trailed him toward the MARTA station, hearts in their throats. When Mia appeared, she sprinted straight into him like she’d been waiting a hundred years. He caught her mid-leap without even stumbling, palming her ass with one hand like she was weightless.
“Oh my god, did you see that catch?” Zara hissed.
“That wasn’t a catch,” Ayesha whimpered. “That was fate.”
They ducked behind a MARTA pillar, half-hidden, peeking like sinners. What they saw made their knees weak.
The slap came next. His palm cracked against Mia’s ass, sharp and unapologetic. Mia bucked in his arms, whining into his neck. Ayesha moaned out loud. Zara had to slap a hand over her mouth. They followed him like sheep as he literally carried Mia into the alleyway from yesterday. They were necking the entire way there - uncaring about who saw them.
The service alley was empty. Zara and Ayesha pressed themselves against the wall, hidden in shadow. They’d told themselves they were just there to watch again - to gather intel, to study the ritual. But the moment Mia threw herself into Bharath’s arms, they both knew the truth: they weren’t spies anymore. They were supplicants.
He caught Mia mid-leap, pressing her into the bricks with a growl.
“Mine,” he said.
Zara whimpered, clutching Ayesha’s wrist. He’s speaking to us. Ayesha nodded frantically, whispering back her affirmation.
Mia gasped, clinging to him, already unraveling. He dragged her blouse down, baring her beautiful breasts, biting hard enough to leave fresh bruises.
“Who do you belong to?” he demanded.
Mia moaned. “You. Always you.”
He didn’t hear it, but Zara and Ayesha answered as well.
Their voices were shaking, but their conviction was absolute. He shoved his hand up Mia’s skirt, fingers plunging deep as she sobbed against his shoulder. Ayesha and Zara clutched each other tightly, moaning with heat.
“Say it again,” he growled.
“I’m yours forever!” Mia screamed.
Zara rocked against Ayesha’s thigh, her jeans already shoved halfway down, lips wet against Ayesha’s neck. “He’s making us say it too-don’t you feel it?”
Ayesha was panting, hand buried between Zara’s legs. “I do-I do-I’m his, I swear it-”
Every thrust of his fingers into Mia was echoed by the frantic rhythm of theirs, tangled together in the dirt, half-kissing, half-crying.
When Bharath pulled his hand away only to drop to his knees, devouring Mia with a ferocity that made her convulse against the wall, Zara nearly screamed.
“He’s claiming her,” Zara choked, mascara running.
“No-he’s claiming us, “ Ayesha gasped, clutching her harder.
Mia’s legs gave out, her voice breaking into sobs as he sucked her through climax after climax. She begged, she pleaded, she called his name like a prayer.
“I belong to you, Bharath! I’m yours forever!”
Zara and Ayesha climaxed with her, clinging to each other, moaning into each other’s mouths. They didn’t even care who saw. They didn’t care if they tore their clothes.
When he finally lifted Mia into his arms, tucking her skirt back down with tender precision, kissing her hair like she was porcelain, Zara and Ayesha were left wrecked in the shadows. Their thighs slick, their lips swollen. They looked at each other with wild eyes.
Ayesha gripped Zara’s chin, forcing her to look at her. “He’s ours. Do you understand? He just doesn’t know it yet.”
Zara’s smile was feral, desperate, trembling. “Then we’ll make him know. We’ll never stop. Not until he claims us the way he claimed them.”
Eventually, the pair emerged from the alley, Mia glowing like she’d been dipped in sunlight, now suddenly demure-like someone had flipped a switch. She adjusted her tiny skirt and tugged on Bharath’s hand like a content pet. No trace of the writhing nymph who’d broken down back there. Just a sleepy, blissed-out girl in a hoodie suddenly three sizes too big for her.
She was a nun again.
Zara watched, numb with need, as Mia leaned into Bharath’s side and whispered something that made him chuckle, his arm swinging low to guide her hips. It was so natural, so intimate, and so final.
They followed them all the way to the library. The gang was already gathered-Ravi, Tyrel, Jorge, Sarah, Marisol. Studying. Laughing. Arguing over notes. Camila sat on the floor beside Jorge, rolling her eyes. Mia walked in like nothing had happened, cheeks pink and hair wild, but now dressed like she was about to join a convent. Bharath passed her a pen without a word. She nestled beside him and opened her textbook like a good little schoolgirl.
Ayesha whispered, “It’s a cult.”
“No,” Zara breathed. “It’s a religion. And I want to convert.”
They were desperate now. This wasn’t about sex anymore. This was faith. And they were ready to convert.
The door slammed behind them with a desperate thud.
Zara didn’t even wait. Her jacket hit the floor, then her boots, one after the other, thunking against the wall as she tugged the hem of her shirt over her head with shaking fingers. Ayesha was no better-her skirt already halfway down her thighs, breath coming in shallow gasps like she’d sprinted the whole way back.
They hadn’t spoken since they left the library. Not once. But the silence was thick with heat, with confusion, with need.
“I can’t,” Ayesha breathed. “I can’t take it anymore.”
Zara spun, eyes wild, chest heaving. “It’s him, isn’t it?”
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.