Their Wonder Years: Season 1: Fall 1998
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
65: The Wrath of Maria
Coming of Age Sex Story: 65: The Wrath of Maria - 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 front door clicked shut behind Maria, but the sound was swallowed by the roaring in her ears. She stood frozen on the threshold, her gaze sweeping the living room.
There was Marisol, her Marisol, standing protectively close to Bharath. Her hand was on his arm, not in a casual gesture, but in a claim. A solidarity. And she was looking at Mia not with betrayal or anger, but with a fierce, shared panic.
Maria’s mind, reeling from the image of her youngest daughter wrapped around her eldest’s boyfriend, stuttered to a halt. This wasn’t the reaction she expected. Where was the sisterly fury? The tears of betrayal?
Her eyes, sharp and frantic, darted to the other girls. Sarah, Ayesha, Zara. They weren’t hovering awkwardly on the sidelines, unsure of which friend to comfort. They were clustered around Bharath and her daughters, a unified front. Their faces were pale, their eyes wide with fear, but that fear was directed at her, not at the shocking scene they had just witnessed.
A cold, sickening dread began to pool in her stomach. This was wrong. The geometry of the room was all wrong.
“Marisol?” Maria’s voice was a ragged whisper. “What ... what is this?”
Marisol lifted her chin, her expression a turbulent mix of defiance and pain. “Mami, please. Let us explain.”
“Explain what?” Maria’s voice rose, sharp as broken glass. “Explain why you are standing there while he... “ she jabbed a finger at Bharath, “ ... has his tongue down your sister’s throat?!”
It was Sarah who spoke next, her voice calm but firm, and the sheer wrongness of her speaking in this family moment made Maria flinch. “Maria, it’s not like that.”
“It’s not like that?” Maria parroted, a hysterical laugh bubbling in her throat. “And what gives you the right to speak? This is between me and my daughters!”
“But it involves all of us,” Ayesha said softly, her gaze steady, and in that moment, Maria’s world tilted off its axis.
The living room felt too small. The walls felt too close. The air too tight - as if someone had vacuumed all the oxygen out of the room. Everyone felt claustrophobic suddenly.
Under the weight of her terrifying stillness, their defiant postures crumbled. As one, they retreated to the couch, collapsing into a huddled, mass.
She wasn’t a large woman. Barely over five feet in her house slippers, with a wiry frame wrapped in a loose cardigan and a long skirt. But in that moment - standing ramrod straight, arms crossed tightly over her chest, chin lifted - she towered over them all. She seemed to tower over them like a Colossus. Marisol and Mia were speechless with trepidation. They had never seen their mother like this. They moved along with their sisters-in-love, hoping to find respite from their mother’s withering glares.
The girls moved so that they were huddled together on the couch, knees touching, shoulders trembling. Mia, Marisol, Sarah, Ayesha, and Zara - five young women who, just minutes ago, had been laughing under the stars - were now in silence, their cheeks stained with tears, their hands clutching each other like survivors after a shipwreck.
Maria stood before them like a storm cloud made flesh.
Her presence swallowed the room. Her eyes were on fire. And every second she didn’t speak only made the silence more unbearable.
Mia sobbed quietly into Marisol’s shoulder.
Marisol started crying too - not with loud sniffles or hiccups, but in silent streams, her composure cracking in slow motion.
Sarah had both hands over her face, trying to muffle her breathless gasps. Ayesha trembled like she was back in a memory she didn’t want. And Zara - usually the boldest, the brashest - sat with her arms around her knees, trying to make herself small.
And behind them, not touching, but radiating protection like a silent wall of warmth, stood Bharath.
His fists were clenched behind his back. His throat burned with shame and fury and helplessness. He wanted to fall to his knees beside them. Cry with them. Beg for forgiveness. But he didn’t. He stood tall.
For them.
Maria’s voice cut through the air like a crack of thunder.
“Que es esto?” she demanded, eyes flaring at Mia and Marisol. “Que demonios acabo de ver allá afuera, ah? Qué clase de juego enfermo están jugando? What the hell do you think you were doing out there?”
Mia flinched. “Mami, please...”
“No me ‘Mami’ ahora, Mia,” Maria snapped, her voice rising with every word. “You... you were kissing him like ... like some ... prostituta, and all of you were smiling? Smiling?! What is wrong with you all? Did you not see what they were doing outside?”
“Mami ... what they were doing wasn’t wrong ... if you’ll listen...” Marisol tried, voice trembling.
“CALLATE, Marisol! I trusted you. You told me you were happy with him. You! And now I find my baby - mi nina - wrapped around the same boy? And all of you acting like it’s ... normal? Como si esto fuera una telenovela barata?”
A sob escaped Mia, and she buried her face in her hands.
“Look at you,” Maria continued, her voice cracking now. “Mira. Look what you’re doing to yourselves. Crying. Hiding. I am glad you finally realize what you were doing outside. You were shameless Mia.”
No one spoke. No one dared.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Bharath took a step forward.
Maria turned her glare toward him, eyes narrowing like daggers.
“Oh, and you,” she said, voice thick with venom. “The golden boy. I thought you were different. So respectful. So studious. With your nerdy clothes and your shy smile. I told myself, ‘He is not Catholic, he is not Latino, but he is a good boy. He will be good to my Marisol.’ I made peace with it! But now? Look at you. The new clothes, the haircut ... you think I don’t see the game? You are not a good boy. You are just like all the others, but you learned to hide it better.”
Bharath swallowed hard but didn’t look away.
Maria stalked closer, pointing a trembling finger at his chest.
“How dare you,” she hissed. “How dare you come into my house - into my daughter’s life - and do this to her? To both of them? Do you think this is love? Tener cinco chicas enamoradas de ti al mismo tiempo? Are you proud of yourself? Huh? Proud of what you’ve done?”
Still, Bharath didn’t respond. His jaw was tight, his eyes damp but steady.
“Say something!” she shouted, her voice breaking. “Defiendete, cobarde!”
“I will,” he said quietly. “When you’re ready to hear me.”
Maria blinked, as if slapped by the calmness of his voice.
“What?”
“I’m not here to argue with you, Maria,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “I’m not going to shout. I’m not going to hide. But I won’t lie to you either.”
He glanced at the girls.
“They don’t deserve your anger. They don’t deserve your shame. If you need someone to blame, let it be me. I can take it.”
Maria stared at him, stunned into silence for a beat.
Then she laughed - bitter, disbelieving. “Oh, you can take it? Qué noble. Mira qué valiente. The knight in shining armor. Defending your women like it’s some fairy tale.”
“It’s not a fairy tale,” he said, voice tightening. “However, despite what you may think - our feelings for each other are genuine. But it’s messy and hard. But it’s full of love. I love all of them. Marisol, Mia, Sarah, Ayesha and Zara. Each of them.”
Maria’s mouth fell open, aghast. She almost collapsed on the floor when she heard him call out that he was involved with all five girls. She was speechless for a few minutes as she looked at the girls and Bharath disbelievingly. The expression on her face would have been funny if the situation had not been so grave.
“All five of them? Are you insane? Marisol? Do you know about this? What is this boy saying?”
Marisol was steadfast in her reply, “Yes Mami ... we all love him. Together.”
Ayesha spoke up bravely as well. “Maria, it’s true. I love him. Just like your daughters do. He is our forever love.”
“So you all...”
Mia stated, “Si mami. All of us love him.”
“Love?” she echoed with a scornful laugh. “Love? QUE DIABLOS! What the hell do you know about love at your age? How old are you all? 18? 19? This is not love! This is confusion. Degradation and Sin. Manipulation. You ... horrible boy ... you are just using these foolish girls!”
“I’m not,” he said. “And I never would.”
“Then explain it to me,” she snapped. “Explain to me how five girls are in love with the same boy and none of them are being lied to. Explain how this makes sense in any world.”
Bharath looked around the room.
He saw aching hearts but their eyes were steadfast in their belief in him. Despite the pain and fear. He exhaled, taking strength from his women.
“You think I planned this?” he asked quietly. “That I came to America to collect women like trophies?”
Maria didn’t answer.
“I didn’t,” he said. “I am just a boy. Eighteen. Lost. Lonely. Dumb with dreams. And somehow ... each of them found me.”
He looked back at Maria.
“I didn’t make them love me. I was just ... there. And they loved me anyway. They found me. I am lucky to have any one of them, let alone all five.”
Maria’s eyes were brimming now.
“I love them too,” Bharath said. “Not for their bodies. But because I belong to them.”
Silence fell. Heavy. Fragile. Seeing Maria speechless, the girls took a breath hoping that Bharath managed to convince her.
Maria shook her head.
“This isn’t normal,” she whispered. “This isn’t right.”
“No,” Bharath agreed. “It’s not normal. It’s rare. Scary. And it terrifies me every single day.”
He stepped forward, slowly, respectfully.
“But our relationships are real. It’s honest. And it’s more sacred to me than anything I’ve ever known.”
The girls were all crying again. But this time, it was quieter. Fuller. The girls were holding each other hoping to find some crumb of comfort.
Maria turned away, pacing, fists clenched.
The silence stretched like pulled wire. Tense. Waiting to snap.
Bharath didn’t lower his eyes, didn’t move to speak again. He simply stood there, upright and unyielding, as though anchored to the floor by something stronger than pride.
Maria’s voice, when it came again, was softer - not gentler. Just wound tighter, like a spring waiting to uncoil.
“You think this is deep?” she said, slow and venomous. “You think you love them?”
Bharath nodded once.
“I know I do.”
Maria scoffed.
“And what? You think this is destiny? That Dios put these five girls in your bed like a prize for being a good boy?”
He shook his head, but still didn’t argue. He didn’t flinch. That calmness - that maddening restraint - acted like gasoline on Maria’s fire.
She snapped.
“No,” he said then, meeting her fury with something solemn. “You won’t believe how it happened, senora. And that’s okay.”
Maria stiffened.
“I’m not going to waste your time pretending there’s a story that will make it all clean and neat and palatable. There isn’t one.”
“Entonces por qué hablas?!” she yelled. “Why are you standing here acting like this isn’t insane?! Like this isn’t wrong?”
Bharath stepped forward again, but not to impose. Not to challenge. His voice dropped to something reverent.
“What I will tell you ... is how I feel.”
The room held its breath.
He looked toward the couch. The huddled mess of soft shoulders and tear-rimmed eyes. The women he would die for. The women who meant more to him than anything else in the world.
“They aren’t a phase. They’re not a fling. They’re not toys or trophies or some conquest,” he said. “You think I’m collecting them? I’m not. They’re my ... they’re my home. They are my everything. I’m not their owner.”
Maria’s jaw clenched, her nails digging into her own palms.
“You what?”
“I don’t own them. But I am theirs. Completely. They chose me. I don’t know why ... but they did. And I chose them back. Not to collect them. To ... to belong to them. To protect them. Even from this. Especially from this.”
Maria recoiled like she’d been struck.
“MALDITA SEAS! COMO TE ATREVES? YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT LOVE. WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT TAKING CARE OF ANYONE?”
Still he stood firm.
“Whatever you believe, senora, know this: I would walk away from everything else in this world before I walk away from them.”
Maria’s breath came in short bursts now, her whole body trembling. This time she tried to calm herself down a little and tried to appeal to the stupid boy.
“Again with the nonsense. Listen boy. What do you know about life and love and sacrifice? You think spouting some idiotic comments about love makes you worthy of them? I thought you were a good boy,” she said, voice thin and shaking. “I thought - Dios mio - I thought you were different. Respectful. Honest. Someone my girls could lean on.”
“You’re wrong about him!” Sarah blurted from the couch, tears sliding unchecked. “He is good. He’s the best man I’ve ever known.”
“CALLATE!” Maria screamed. “TU NO SABES NADA DE HOMBRES BUENOS! YOU ARE JUST A FOOLISH GIRL. ALL OF YOU! FOOLISH GIRLS! IDIOTAS!”
The force of it cracked the air.
Maria rounded back on Bharath.
Maria’s eyes, blazing with fury, swept over the five girls on the couch. She pointed a trembling finger at Bharath, but her words were for them.
“You think this is love?” she spat, her voice thick with a pain that was decades old. “You think his heart is big enough for five women? Let me tell you about a man’s heart. A man’s heart is a small, greedy thing. It wants what is new. What is easy. What demands nothing of him!”
She took a step closer, her gaze locking on Marisol, then Mia.
“Your father ... he loved me like a fire when I was young. When my body was tight and my face was smooth and I had all the time in the world to worship the ground he walked on. But then ... then came you.” She looked at Marisol, her voice cracking. “And my body changed. My time was no longer my own. I was tired. I had stretch marks and dark circles and a mind full of pediatrician appointments instead of poetry. And he? He found a waitress who looked at him the way I used to. A woman with no responsibilities, whose life was still a party.”
Her voice dropped to a venomous whisper.
“And he left. He left me with a baby and a toddler because I could not be his beautiful girl and the mother of his children. And you think this boy...” she jerked her head toward Bharath, “ ... is different? You think he will not grow tired? That he will not look at one of you when you are tired or sad or sick and think, ‘But the other four are still smiling’? You are dividing his attention five ways! What happens when one of you needs all of it? He will have none to give!”
“You’re no better than him, you know. My ex-husband,” she hissed. “That piece of mierda who ran off with a waitress while I had a baby barely learning to walk and another still nursing!”
She stormed closer to Bharath wagging her finger at his face.
“You’re worse than him! My husband was a weak man, but at least he was one of us! He understood our culture, our faith. You ... you come here with your foreign ways and your smooth talk and you seduce them all? This is not our way! This is not God’s way! What kind of brujería is this?”
Her voice broke on the last word. The pain had always been there - coiled and buried - but now it surged like a flood.
“At least he had the decency to leave! Because he understood that he was sinning. You? You want to stand here, smiling, taking five of them down with you?!”
Bharath’s breath caught, but he didn’t defend himself. Not from that.
Maria kept going.
“You’re worse than him. Worse than a cheater. You’re an adulterer, a liar, a maldito brujo - yes, I said it! A black magician with your sweet face and fake humility! What did you do to them, huh? What kind of spell did you cast to turn them against their own blood?”
The room erupted. Not with denial, but with a chorus of affirmation that shattered Maria’s understanding of the universe.
“You’re wrong about him!” Sarah cried, stepping forward, placing herself physically between Maria and Bharath.
“He’s the best man I’ve ever known!” Zara declared, her voice trembling but clear as she moved to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Sarah.
“He would never hurt us,” Ayesha whispered, her hand finding Bharath’s, their fingers lacing together with a practiced, intimate ease that stole the air from Maria’s lungs.
“He sees me for who I am!” Mia cried out, her voice trembling with conviction.
“He sees what you show him!” Maria shot back, her voice sharp with desperation. “He sees five beautiful, sexy, young, adoring faces. You are all in your prime! You are the fantasy of every man with your youth and beauty! But life is not a fantasy. What happens, Mia, when you get sick? Or you gain five pounds? What happens, Marisol, when you are stressed from exams and you are not your fierce, perfect self? What happens, Ayesha, when you have a bad day and your dreamy smile is gone?”
She looked at each of them, her eyes pleading.
“A man who collects beauty will always be looking for the next beautiful thing. And you ... you have made it so easy for him. You have handed him a bouquet. Do you think he will cherish every single flower forever? Or will he, one day, notice that one is wilting and simply focus on the others? You are setting yourselves up to be compared, every single day. To be ranked. And there is no loyalty in a man who has already decided that one woman is not enough.”
Maria stared, her mouth agape. She looked from one beautiful, earnest young face to another. They weren’t just defending their friend’s boyfriend. They were defending their own. The possessive way Zara looked at him, the tender way Ayesha held his hand, the ferocious protectiveness in Sarah’s stance.
Maria let out a bitter, broken laugh. “You talk about love. You use words like ‘sacred’ and ‘devotion’. I hear the words, mija, but they are just a haze. A beautiful, sweet-smelling smoke he has filled this room with so you cannot see the truth.”
She walked slowly along the edge of the couch, making eye contact with each girl.
“Open your eyes, mijas! Do you think his family will ever accept this? Your Indian prince?” she spat the term with contempt. “Do you think his mother will welcome you all with open arms? You will be nothing to them! You will be his dirty American secret! He will marry a nice girl his parents choose, and you will be left with nothing but broken hearts and a ruined reputation!”
She stood tall thinking she was about to make the final point that would get the girls to her side.
“This feeling ... this love you talk about ... it is not a foundation. It is the spark. And the spark always fades. What remains? Duty. Loyalty. Sacrifice. The hard, unglamorous work of building a life with one person who has promised to stand by you when the spark is long gone.”
She stopped, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.
“What sacrifice has he made? He has sacrificed nothing! He has only gained! He has five girlfriends who give him everything and ask for only a fraction of his heart in return. He is not building a life with you; he is enjoying a feast! And when the feast is over, when real life begins with its bills and its illnesses and its disappointments, he will be gone. He will be looking for the next table set for him. Men like him are not builders; they are consumers. And you ... my beautiful, brilliant, foolish girls ... you are what is on the menu.”
Her eyes snapped to Marisol, begging her, pleading with her silently to refute this madness. But Marisol’s gaze was not on her. It was on Bharath, filled with a heart-wrenching mix of pride and anguish. And then she looked at the other girls, and gave a tiny, imperceptible nod.
They are all in agreement. The thought was a ice pick to her soul. They have all consented to this ... this insanity. Maria felt like she had been sucker-punched. These girls were not even willing to listen to her! No matter how many times she repeated herself. What had this boy done to them? This boy had to be evil. There had to be some kind of evil involved! This was madness! It was blasphemy!
“It can’t be,” she breathed, her legs feeling weak. “You ... all of you...? How can you all say you love him? This is not possible. It is a sin!”
Mia, her face streaked with tears, looked up and confirmed her mother’s worst nightmare with a single, devastating sentence. “Yes, Mami. All of us. He loves all of us. And we all love him.”