Their Wonder Years: Season 1: Fall 1998
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
47: Echoes of his Voice
Coming of Age Sex Story: 47: Echoes of his Voice - 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
The four of them hadn’t made it ten yards from the parking lot when the trap sprang. Leah and her court - half-drunk on Zima were perched around their own tailgate like vultures. Ryan was holding court with a Solo cup, sunglasses on as usual.
“Well, well, well,” Leah purred, flipping her hair with exaggerated grace. “If it isn’t the prodigal ex-queens. We haven’t seen you for a couple of days. I thought you two joined a convent after that morning, right Ryan?”
Ryan smirked, sipping his drink. “It’s the saints and their new disciples,” he said loudly enough for half the quad to hear.
Leah snorted. “Careful, Ryan. You’ll get baptized if you stand too close. They might start handing out pamphlets about ‘How Not to Be a Skank.’ We all know why guys keep you around.”
The laughter was sharp, and ugly. Ayesha froze. Zara’s grip on her hand tightened until her knuckles went white. Sarah’s jaw clenched. She’d seen enough cafeteria sniping to recognize this brand of cruelty. But before she could step in, Marisol did.
“Really?” Marisol snapped, her voice slicing through the air like a blade. “That’s the best you got? Rehab jokes and talking about women like that? Dios mío, Leah, I’ve heard better insults from Ravi when he loses Monopoly.”
Leah blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Marisol crossed her arms, eyes narrowing. “You look pathetic. Standing around, giggling like hyenas while two girls cry. That’s what you call fun?”
The crowd tittered uncertainly. Ryan scoffed. “Relax, chica, we’re just playing. Don’t worry your fine ass about it.”
Marisol’s gaze snapped to him, slow and lethal. “No, wannabe Tom Cruise, you’re not ‘playing.’ You’re just mean. And not even funny mean. Lazy mean. You should at least workshop your material before you unleash it on the public.” She tilted her head at Leah, then back to Ryan. “Does fake queen bitch here at least make you take off your fake Ray-Bans before you’re done licking her ass in private?”
The reaction was immediate. Ryan choked so hard he nearly spit his drink all over his sneakers. Leah’s face went crimson. Half the crowd stared like someone had just torn a Backstreet Boys poster in half in protest.
Sarah covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. Ayesha, even through her tears, let out a small hiccup of shock.
Leah’s voice wobbled. “This doesn’t involve you, Marisol. Buzz off.”
Marisol stepped closer, her earrings swinging like little weapons. Her voice dropped to a hiss that carried anyway. “I don’t care. Nobody deserves to be talked to the way you just talked to them. So you and your little circus can go back to playing whatever shallow drinking game you’re pretending is a personality.”
The crowd went silent as Leah and Ryan were rendered speechless.
That was when Ayesha tugged hard on Marisol’s sleeve, eyes wide and wet. “Please,” she whispered. “Let’s just ... go.”
Zara nodded fiercely, pulling Ayesha along like the words alone had broken something open.
Sarah’s voice rang out, shaking with fury. “You all should be ashamed of yourselves!”
She’d meant to sound tough, but what came out was sharper, the kind of anger that had marrow behind it. For a beat, even Leah looked rattled. Marisol gave Leah one last look, a promise written all over her face - this wasn’t over. Then she let Sarah tug her away, muttering under her breath in Spanish that Leah did not want translated.
“Forget them,” Sarah said firmly once they’d cleared the quad. Her chest was still heaving. “Come with us. Let’s go to my place. You don’t need this kind of audience.”
Ayesha and Zara didn’t even hesitate. “Yes,” Zara said quickly, her voice low and urgent.
“Yes,” Ayesha echoed, already pulling her in the right direction.
The four of them crossed the quad in awkward silence, their footsteps out of sync until Ayesha suddenly veered left, tugging Zara like she’d spotted some invisible path.
Sarah frowned. “Uh ... my house is the other way.”
“No, no,” Zara said quickly, cheeks blotchy but voice certain. “This is faster. Trust us.”
Marisol cocked a brow at Sarah, muttering under her breath. “Trust them? Girl, they’re marching like they’ve got Mapquest implanted in their brains.”
Sarah whispered back, “Exactly. They didn’t even ask for an address. Are we the invitees here?”
Zara glanced over her shoulder, smiling nervously. “Don’t worry. We, um ... notice things. Patterns. Where you go. How you walk. Which turns you take after class...”
Sarah stopped mid-stride. “Excuse me?”
Ayesha quickly cut in. “She means, like, we’ve seen you around. You know. Campus is small. You pick things up.” She gave a brittle laugh. “We’re very observant.”
Sarah blinked. “Observant. Right.”
Marisol muttered in Spanish, “Observant, my ass. No me jodas,” then louder, “Well, congratulations, Sherlock Holmes and Watson. Lead the way.”
And so they did - Sarah and Marisol trailing behind like interns stuck on a power-walk with their bosses, except the bosses had mascara streaks and looked one wrong word away from sobbing again.
By the time they reached the gate of the house, Sarah and Marisol were starting to feel like they were the guests who had been invited to their own house. Ayesha finally hesitated at the threshold, blinking as if she’d just realized this wasn’t her house. Zara glanced at Sarah, cheeks blotchy from crying but her chin high, silently asking permission.
Sarah muttered to Marisol under her breath, “Yup. Totally normal. Just letting the ex-queen bees march me to my own front door.”
Marisol elbowed her. “Shhh. You’re the saint here. I’m just the bodyguard.”
Sarah sighed, pulled out her keys, and opened the door. “Fine. But if they break down in the house, you’re in charge.”
At the porch, Ayesha finally faltered, pausing at the threshold. Her knuckles whitened around the railing outside the door.
“Thank you,” she blurted. “For bringing us. You didn’t have to.”
Sarah reached for the key, voice cautious. “Yeah, well ... nobody deserves Leah and Ryan when they’re bored and half-drunk.”
Zara’s voice cracked. “We deserved it. We were them. Worse than them.”
Marisol froze mid-step. The words hung heavy, more real than the perfume still clinging to their clothes.
Sarah turned slowly. The look on her face made Zara flinch. Not judgment, but recognition. Like Sarah had once stood exactly where they were standing now, drowning in shame while people laughed. Her chest tightened, old memories scratching at the edges of her mind. She pushed them back down with effort.
“You don’t deserve that,” Sarah said finally, voice quieter, rougher. “Nobody does.”
Zara’s eyes glistened. “But we put it out into the world first. We laughed at people. We called them names. We made girls cry for fun.”
Ayesha’s lip trembled. “We did everything Leah just did to us. We taught her. And now ... she’s better at it than we ever were.”
Marisol’s eyes softened. She stepped closer and brushed Zara’s shoulder like one might steady a younger sister. “Then maybe it’s time you learn something new.”
The door creaked open. Zara and Ayesha stepped inside reverently, eyes wide. They looked around like pilgrims entering a temple.
Sarah and Marisol exchanged a look.
“Okay,” Sarah whispered. “That’s weird.”
“No kidding,” Marisol murmured. “They’re staring at the furniture like it’s from the Louvre.”
Marisol and Sarah looked at each other with bemusement, watching Ayesha and Zara trail their fingers along the chipped coffee table like it was some priceless artifact. It was like watching art collectors at the Met, except the art in question was secondhand furniture that Sarah had picked up to the consternation of Bharath and the gang. (Couchball).
They didn’t know what to make of it. Surreal didn’t even begin to cover it. And then things came to a head when the girls saw the couch. Their eyes widened in unison. Ayesha let out a soft gasp. Zara made a noise halfway between a squeal and a prayer. Then, as though choreographed, they rushed over and pressed their palms against the faded fabric with trembling hands, like archaeologists unearthing a long-lost treasure.
“You can sit on it if you want to, you know,” Sarah said, eyebrows lifting. “It’s ... just a couch.”
Zara actually squealed. Squealed. As if Sarah had just told her she’d won a year of free shopping at Lenox Mall. Ayesha clapped her hands, eyes wide with pure glee. They hugged each other like they had just been called upon by the Price is Right announcer.
Sarah and Marisol clutched each other in amazement as they watched both girls touch the worn cushions with care, fingers hovering over the faded indents with awe.
Marisol’s face went red as she realized exactly how one of those indents had gotten there. Sarah, ever the wingwoman, nudged her sharply in the ribs before she could combust.
“What’s up with them?” Sarah muttered.
“I don’t know.” Marisol whispered back. “Are they damaged or something? Maybe we made a mistake bringing them here.”
Sarah bit her lip. She’d been trying to keep her empathy under wraps, but watching two former queens of campus act like they’d just discovered Atlantis in couch form was testing her composure.
“Girls,” she said slowly, like she was talking to toddlers. “Sit down, please. If you want to. The couch doesn’t bite.”
But Ayesha and Zara paid them no attention. They were lost in their own world, hands smoothing along the arms of the couch like it might grant wishes if they rubbed hard enough.
Marisol folded her arms. “This is so weird. Now I understand what those people in the Twilight Zone felt like. I always thought that show was a scam.”
Sarah tilted her head, watching them. “No ... this is sad. You know what this is?”
“What?”
“They’ve been around Leah and Ryan for so long, they don’t know what normal feels like. Look at them. They’re impressed by furniture.”
“Do you think they’re safe?” asked Marisol hesitantly.
“They look harmless enough, if a little simple. I guess losing their’ queen bee status hit them hard.”
“I hope that’s the only reason,” said Marisol doubtfully.
When they reached the couch, the dam broke.
“We were cruel,” Ayesha said suddenly, staring at the cushions as if they held her sins. “We said things to you both that ... I still hear in my head. About your clothes. About how you acted around him. About how you didn’t deserve him.”
Her voice cracked. “We were jealous. And shallow. And stupid.”
Zara nodded, gripping her hand. “We didn’t understand. We didn’t even try to. And now we’re ... sorry. We are so, so sorry. We really want to make amends with you.”
Sarah felt something sharp twist inside her chest. The tone, the desperation, the sheer naked shame in their voices ... it hit too close. Her throat closed for a moment. She saw not Ayesha, not Zara, but herself, months ago, drowning under laughter, judged for sins that weren’t even hers.
Her vision blurred for a second. She bit her cheek to keep steady. Don’t go there, not now. Don’t let them see the pain. Bharath will never let that happen again. He has saved me and will always save me.
Marisol reached out instinctively, cupping Zara’s chin, forcing her to meet her gaze. “Look at me,” she said firmly. “You’re not those girls anymore. Not if you don’t want to be.”
Ayesha’s tears slipped free. “But we hurt you. We hurt him.”
Sarah crouched so she was eye-level, her voice trembling but steady. “Then stop running from it. Own it. Change. Don’t let them define you the way Leah tried to today.”
Her hand hovered near Ayesha’s, not quite touching, but close enough that the warmth was felt. Ayesha’s breath hitched, as though Sarah had handed her something sacred.
Sarah decided to take the initiative to make things normal again. “Umm ... girls, make yourselves comfortable. We’ll get some tea and snacks. You can um ... get acquainted with the furniture.”
“That’s what happens when everything in your life is a stage, retorted Marisol cheekily.
But Ayesha and Zara didn’t even pay attention. Marisol and Sarah retreated into the kitchen to prepare some hot tea for these girls. A breakdown like that needed tea and some snacks. Maybe hot brownies? Marisol agreed.
Zara’s eyes lingered on the fabric of the couch like it had absorbed the moans and tears, the weight of bodies giving themselves over to something raw and true. Ayesha stood beside her, unmoving, barely breathing. Her fingers brushed against the armrest, trembling. She couldn’t work up the nerve to even sit. Not yet. She looked down at it like someone looking at a holy relic. Her lower lip quivered, but not from tears this time.
Zara leaned in, her voice barely audible, her lips brushing close to Ayesha’s ear.
“Do you remember what he said to them?” she whispered.
Ayesha’s knees nearly buckled.
She nodded once. “You’re mine. Over and over again. Like he was ... claiming them. Body, soul, and mind.”
Zara swallowed. “They wanted it. They begged for it. Even Marisol. She was begging for more when he spanked them.”
They sat in silence for a long moment, not touching, but so close their shoulders almost brushed.
Their gazes remained fixed on the couch cushions.
Zara finally whispered, “Do you think it’ll ever happen again? Like that?”
Ayesha blinked at her, startled. “To us?”
Zara didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
They both knew what they meant.
Not just the sex. Not just the pleasure or the games or the growls that made their thighs clench with unbidden need.
But the belonging. The surrender that didn’t make them weak - but chosen. A hush fell between them, thick and trembling. Zara’s hand inched closer across the cushion, fingers brushing Ayesha’s. Neither moved to pull away. The contact was featherlight - but it was enough to unlock something waiting just beneath their skin.
Ayesha turned slowly toward her, eyes glinting with the kind of heat that came not from lust alone, but from aching memory. From shared guilt and shared longing.
“His voice,” she whispered. “It’s in my head. Still.”
Zara leaned in, lips parting slightly. “Mine too. That low growl when he said - ’You’re mine.’ I still hear it. Like ... I belong to him and I haven’t even earned it.”
Ayesha made a choking sound that was half-sob, half-whimper, and before she could stop herself, she turned fully and threw her arms around Zara. They clutched each other like castaways who had finally found shore.
Ayesha buried her face in Zara’s neck. “Why does it feel like this?” she gasped, her breath hot against skin. “Why does it feel so right to want it?”
Zara’s hands were trembling as they slid around Ayesha’s waist, pulling her closer. “Because it was right,” she breathed. “For them. For him. They were holy. And we...”
“We want in. We are his too,” Ayesha finished, voice cracking.
She pulled back just enough to look Zara in the eyes.
Zara reached up with trembling fingers and brushed a strand of hair from Ayesha’s cheek. “I want to be touched like that,” she murmured. “Owned like that. I want to beg and mean it. I want to deserve to hear that voice telling me I’m his. He wants us to kiss for him. To demonstrate that we belong to him. Can you hear it too?”
Ayesha shivered and nodded. Then - softly, hesitantly - she leaned in and pressed her lips to Zara’s. The kiss wasn’t hungry at first. It was quiet and soulful. A whisper of shared arousal wrapped in shame and hope and the ghost of his voice echoing between them.
Kiss each other my loves. Show me how much you want me.
Zara whimpered into the kiss, her grip tightening. Ayesha’s fingers clutched at the hem of Zara’s sweatshirt, her body trembling with emotion she didn’t know how to name. Their lips moved again - this time more urgent, like they were chasing a memory together. A feeling they had only ever glimpsed through shadows and sounds. A promise they hadn’t been given, but now burned to earn.
Ayesha gasped against Zara’s mouth. “He spanked them because they misbehaved. And they thanked him.”
Zara’s eyes were glassy, lips swollen. “They begged for more.”
Ayesha pulled Zara flush against her, their legs tangling instinctively on the couch. “He told them they were perfect even when they cried. Especially when they cried.”
Zara nodded shakily. “I’d cry for him.”
“I already have,” Ayesha whispered. “But not the right kind of tears.”
Their foreheads touched. They were both shaking now - clinging to each other like girls reborn in fire and memory.
And between them, pulsing like a heartbeat not their own, was the low phantom echo of his voice: Mine.
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