Their Wonder Years: Season 1: Fall 1998
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
7: The Morning After, the Night Before
Coming of Age Sex Story: 7: The Morning After, the Night Before - 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
Marisol woke up with a start.
For a moment, the disorientation swallowed her whole.
She wasn’t in her bed. She wasn’t even sure where she was.
The ceiling above her was different from that of her room — plainer, lower. The air was unfamiliar, tinged with the faint scent of detergent, old textbooks, and the artificial chill of a dormitory vent. A dim amber glow blinked to life as her eyes found a red-lit clock on a nearby desk.
4:03 AM.
Her heart thudded in quiet panic — that quick, animal reaction to waking in an unknown place. Her body stiffened instinctively, mind racing through possibilities.
And then she felt it.
Not fear.
Warmth.
Not just the kind that came from heavy blankets or the residual heat of sleep — but something deeper. A living warmth that wrapped around her like a secret, cradled her like it knew exactly how she fit into its contours.
A body.
A breath against the back of her neck.
A strong arm looped tight around her waist, palm resting low on her belly. Another hand — wide, steady, embarrassingly perfect — cupped her breast under her t-shirt, fingers spread possessively like they’d been molded just for this. Legs tangled with hers. A heartbeat against her spine.
Her own breath caught in her throat.
Bharath.
She was in his bed.
In his room.
With him.
The fear, the confusion, the what-the-hell-of-it-all — drained from her like a tide pulling back into the sea.
And in its place came something so grounding, so unexpected, it made her chest ache.
She felt ... safe.
Completely and irrationally safe.
It made no sense. She had known him for, what —two weeks? Twenty days at most? And yet, in this moment, in this strange bed with his hand over her heart and his chest rising and falling against her back, it felt like the only truth she had ever known.
Her lips curved into the pillow as the weight of him registered fully.
Bharath, in sleep, was all instinct and claim. His hold wasn’t tentative. He wasn’t shy about it. His body had molded to hers like they were puzzle pieces that had finally found their match. His hand on her breast wasn’t lewd, wasn’t even intentional — just there, cradling her like he knew she needed it.
And, god help her, maybe she did.
She shifted slightly, testing the edges of her soreness. Her hips ached — a sweet, secret ache that made her bite her lip. Her skin felt oversensitized, kissed too many times, her nerve endings still remembering what it was like to unravel slowly in someone else’s hands.
In his hands.
Images from last night floated back: his fingers finding her rhythm, his mouth whispering against her chest, the way his breath had caught every time she moaned his name. The way he had learned her like it was a sacred act.
She’d never known her body could feel like that.
She’d never let anyone get close enough to find out.
And Bharath — the quiet, awkward boy who still blushed when someone mentioned sex out loud — had brought her to the edge again and again, like he was made for her.
She exhaled slowly and tilted her head to the side, catching a glimpse of his face in the dim light.
He was still asleep, mouth parted, lashes resting against his cheeks, the faintest crease between his brows like he was still holding her even in his dreams. He looked younger in sleep. Unarmored. Unburdened.
Mine, he had whispered against her skin last night, voice low and raw.
She shivered.
Not from fear.
From memory.
She’d felt claimed. Seen. Touched — not just physically, but emotionally, spiritually. It hadn’t been sex. They hadn’t even gotten undressed. But it was the most intimate thing she’d ever experienced.
And now, hours later, his fingers were still resting on her breast like that word still lived in him.
Mine.
She turned her head just slightly and brushed her lips against his jaw. Once. Then again, slower. The roughness of his stubble made her smile.
“You’re a very good pillow,” she murmured.
He stirred.
Not fully awake — not yet — but enough for his arm to pull her closer. Enough for his thumb to graze absentmindedly over her nipple.
A tiny gasp escaped her lips.
She bit down on it, cheeks flushing. His hand wasn’t even moving deliberately. It was just there. But her body was still so sensitive, still alive from last night, that the contact sent heat straight through her again.
“You’re trouble,” she whispered into his skin.
But she didn’t pull away.
If anything, she leaned further into him, savoring the cradle of his body around hers.
She loved the contrast — her curves against his lean frame, the feeling of his hips pressed snug to her backside, the light pressure of something hardening against her as her movement stirred him further from sleep.
She smiled wickedly to herself.
He’d been so reverent last night. So careful.
But she hadn’t missed the edge underneath it all. The way his grip had tightened when she climaxed. The way his mouth had gone hungry. The way he had growled that one word like it came from somewhere primal when he claimed her breasts before they slept.
She wanted that Bharath again. She wanted to coax him out — unwrap him, slowly, until there was no hesitation left. And maybe — just maybe — she wanted to be claimed again.
With another slow breath, she rolled her hips back into him, just slightly. Just enough.
He groaned. Soft. Sleepy. But real.
His nose buried against her neck, and she felt the puff of warm air as he stirred fully now, his hand tightening over her breast in a slow, unconscious squeeze.
“Marisol...?” he mumbled groggily.
She turned in his arms, smiling as she slipped a hand into his hair and kissed his cheek.
“Morning, handsome.”
He blinked blearily at her, trying to catch up. “What time is it?”
“Too early. But just right.”
A pause.
And then a slow grin spread across his face as memory returned. “You’re still here.”
“I am,” she whispered. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
Not yet. She had questions. Doubts. Confusions. Was this love? Was she being reckless?
Maybe.
But in that moment — wrapped in the arms of the kindest, strangest, smartest boy she had ever met — Marisol didn’t need answers.
She just needed him. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep with him. Definitely hadn’t meant to stay. And waking up like this? Curled into his chest, held like something precious, his warm palm still cupping her breast like he never wanted to let go?
That hadn’t been in the plan either.
But here she was. Not flinching. Not doubting
In fact — she didn’t want to move. She’d never gone this far with a man before.
Not because there hadn’t been chances. God knew the boys in high school — had tried. Smooth talkers. Athletes. Guys who looked at her like she was some kind of prize to unwrap and conquer. She often was called ice-princess because she kept turning them down.
But she never trusted them. Not one. Not until now.
Not until this strange, soft-spoken Indian boy with sleepy eyes and awkward shoulders had looked at her like she was holy — had touched her like he meant it — like her pleasure was a privilege, not a favor.
She didn’t know what love was. Not really. But this? This felt like the start of something that could be. A shift in the bed pulled her from her thoughts.
Bharath stirred behind her — his chest rising with a deeper inhale, the hand on her breast flexing just slightly as if waking up knew exactly where it had left off.
She smiled to herself, arching back ever so slightly into his touch.
A heartbeat later, his lips brushed the edge of her shoulder. Warm. Sleep-heavy. Curious.
“Mmm ... morning,” he murmured, voice gravel-thick and barely awake.
“Hey,” she whispered back, unable to help the little grin that spread across her lips.
He didn’t answer with words. Just pressed another kiss against her bare shoulder — then trailed one up to her neck. Then another.
His hand squeezed gently, thumb brushing across her nipple with unintentional precision.
Her breath hitched.
“Someone’s awake,” she murmured.
His laugh was a low rumble against her back. “You’re very motivating.”
“You sure you’re not dreaming this?”
“If I am,” he whispered against her ear, “I don’t want to wake up.”
She turned in his arms then — slowly — until she was facing him, chest to chest, leg sliding between his.
His eyes were still heavy-lidded, lashes thick against his cheeks, but the way he looked at her now ... it wasn’t innocent anymore.
It was hungry. Curious. Bolder than last night.
And she liked it.
“I thought you were the shy one,” she teased.
He shrugged, fingers curling around her waist, sliding under her hoodie again. “I think you broke something in me.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Broke?”
“Unlocked,” he corrected, voice rough. “Definitely unlocked.”
She laughed — soft, husky — and then gasped quietly as his mouth found the curve of her collarbone, lips parting to taste her skin like he’d missed it overnight.
“I could get used to this,” he murmured, lips moving across her collarbone with a reverence that sent shivers skimming down her spine.
Marisol’s breath caught. Her fingers slid into his thick, sleep-tousled hair as his mouth kept moving — slow, steady, open kisses pressed into the dip of her clavicle, then just above the neckline of her sweatshirt. She tilted her head, offering him more. Not because he asked. But because he earned it.
“I think you already have,” she whispered, her voice breathy and teasing.
His smile against her skin was crooked, mischievous. “You... really don’t know what you’ve done to me.”
“Oh?” she asked, lips brushing his temple. “Do tell.”
“You taught me things last night,” he murmured. His hand slid down from her waist to the curve of her hip. “Things I didn’t know I was capable of.”
She arched into his touch. “I noticed.”
“I think,” he said, lifting his head to look into her eyes, “I need to remember those lessons.”
His voice was still low, but something in it had changed — a kind of tension behind the softness. Confidence, maybe. Or hunger barely restrained.
She felt her stomach twist with arousal.
“You need a refresher course?” she asked, eyes gleaming.
“Yeah,” he said, kissing her again — this time slow, deep, unhurried. “But I want to take my time.”
His hand pushed her tshirt higher, bunching it just below her ribs. He lowered his head again, lips brushing the soft underside of one breast, then further up until her nipple met his mouth — already peaked, already aching.
Her back arched involuntarily.
“Oh—” she gasped, the word slipping out of her like steam.
He didn’t stop. He kissed, sucked, teased her softly with his tongue in ways that made her thighs clench and her breath shatter in waves.
She cradled his head to her chest, her fingers trembling now in his hair.
“Bharath,” she breathed, “oh my god ... don’t stop.”
He didn’t.
His free hand cupped her other breast now, stroking it in rhythm with his mouth. He was learning her again — rediscovering the paths he’d traced the night before, but slower, more deliberate. He was more confident this time, not just touching but reading her. Every sigh, every twitch, every tilt of her hips became a language they both understood.
“You feel so good,” he murmured against her skin.
She whimpered, hips grinding gently against his thigh. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me...”
“Then show me,” he said, voice rough with desire.
She took his hand again and slid it between them, under her waistband this time. Just barely. Just enough to let him feel the heat that was pooling there.
His fingers brushed just above her center and she gasped — not just because of the touch, but because it felt ... inevitable. Like every inch of her body had been waiting for this moment, this weight, this pressure, this slow teasing glide of his fingertips.
“Like this?” he asked softly.
She nodded, biting her lip.
“Slower ... circle ... there—oh, yes.”
Her hand was still guiding his, but her hips had a rhythm of their own now. He followed — obedient, focused, hungry to give her more. His fingers worked gently at first, then with growing confidence, alternating pressure with feather-soft strokes.
Her breaths came out in little gasps now, body trembling in his arms. “God, you’re learning so fast—”
He kissed her again, this time catching her moan with his mouth, and her climax hit like a wave crashing against the shore.
Her body shuddered, her thighs clenching, her breath held tight before it escaped in a soft, cracked cry against his lips.
“Oh fuck, Bharath ... I—” she broke off, arching again as aftershocks rippled through her, sharp and sweet and unstoppable.
He didn’t stop.
He kept moving, fingers gentle but insistent, coaxing another from her before she could even catch her breath.
She gasped again, hands gripping his shoulders. “No, wait, I can’t—”
But she could.
She did.
A second climax rolled through her like a thunderclap, pulling a sob from her throat — not from pain, but pleasure too big to contain. Her eyes filled with tears she didn’t understand. Her body couldn’t stop shaking.
Bharath kissed her through it all, whispering soft nothings against her lips.
“You’re beautiful ... you’re incredible ... I’ve got you ... I’ve got you.”
And she broke again — a third wave, raw and messy and perfect.
When it finally passed, she collapsed against him, face buried in his neck, breath coming in stuttering bursts.
He held her like something sacred. Not fragile. Just ... cherished.
Neither spoke for a long time.
Then finally, still clinging to him, she whispered against his throat, “You didn’t just remember ... you graduated.”
He chuckled, holding her tighter. “Do I get a certificate?”
“You get...” she kissed him once, then again, then deeper, “ ... anything you want.”
He pulled her back just enough to look at her.
Her hair was a mess. Her cheeks were flushed. Her lips were kiss-swollen, her t-shirt half-off, her chest still heaving. And she had never looked more beautiful.
“I don’t want anything,” he said, voice trembling a little. “Except you.”
Her eyes searched his face.
She saw no manipulation. No cocky smirk. No expectation.
Just want.
Raw, honest, gentle want.
And love — the kind that didn’t need to speak its name yet, but was building in the quiet between their heartbeats.
She cupped his cheek, kissing him softly. “Then you already have me.”
They lay there like that, wrapped around each other as if they were the only people in the world, the morning sun slipping through the dorm blinds like it too wanted to bask in what they’d just shared.
And for the first time in years — maybe ever — Marisol didn’t wonder what came next.
She just knew.
This was the beginning of everything.
The world lay still that morning. It was early—just 4:45 AM.
Even the Georgia Tech campus, typically alive with the low murmur of traffic, the distant shuffle of students, or the faint thump of bass from a cracked dorm window, felt hushed.
As if the universe had taken a breath.
And maybe that was just right.
Because for Bharath and Marisol, everything else had fallen away.
After a whispered, giggly dash to the shared showers, they’d found themselves behind the furthest curtain in the row — steam already thick in the air, the scent of soap and tile mingling with something warmer, more primal.
The door had clicked shut behind them, and Marisol had leaned back against the cold tile wall, grinning as she watched Bharath fumble with the knobs, trying to get the temperature just right without scalding them both.
It was the first time they were seeing each other fully naked.
And though they’d been skin-to-skin for hours the night before, this was different. The light was unforgiving. The space was stark. There was nowhere to hide.
Yet neither of them flinched.
Marisol stood tall and unashamed, her damp hair cascading down her back, framing a face that looked like the morning sun had made her its muse. She was a vision of soft power — her full breasts swayed slightly with each breath, her waist cinched just enough to exaggerate the delicious curve of her hips, her thighs strong, her ass sculpted like something from a Renaissance sculpture.
Bharath didn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t staring.
“Oh my god,” he whispered.
Marisol arched an eyebrow. “You noticing just now?”
He laughed, stunned, his voice dry. “I think I forgot how to blink.”
She stepped forward, letting the water spray hit her shoulder, then trailed a finger slowly down his chest.
“Well,” she said, glancing down with a smirk, “looks like someone’s glad to see me.”
Bharath flushed, but didn’t move. Her eyes had landed on his shaft — thick, already stirring to life under her gaze.
“You’re ... really girthy,” she murmured, almost to herself, fingers now brushing his hip. “That’s going to be fun.”
He made a strangled sound.
“Marisol...”
She grinned, kissed his jaw. “Relax. I said you were going to get rewarded, remember?”
“I ... yeah. I remember.”
His voice was raw now, his eyes glued to the water trickling down her breasts, over her belly, between her thighs. She was divine. She looked like a goddess made flesh — dripping, radiant, powerful. But there was softness there too — the way she tucked her wet hair behind her ears, the way her nipples hardened under the spray and she shivered, ever so slightly.
“Do you know what you look like right now?” he asked hoarsely.
She tilted her head. “Enlighten me.”
“Like femininity itself,” he whispered. “Like every temple sculpture I’ve ever seen, except alive. Better.”
Her expression softened. “That ... that’s the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
He stepped closer, not touching her yet, just letting their breath mix with the mist. “I want to sculpt myself for you,” he said suddenly. “I want you to look at me the way I’m looking at you right now. I want to make you proud.”
She blinked. “Bharath...”
“I’m serious,” he said. “I’m going to the gym every day with Jorge. No excuses. I want you to drool. I want to be yours in every way.”
Marisol’s lips parted, caught between a laugh and something deeply moved.
“You already are mine, dumbass,” she said, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around his neck. “But if you want to sculpt that hot little body of yours for me ... go ahead. I’ll cheer you on.”
She kissed him.
Slow. Wet. Deep.
The water thundered behind them, cascading over their bodies as they pressed flush together for the first time — no fabric between them, nothing but skin and heat and months of aching need.
He reached for the soap, hands trembling, and began to lather her body like it was a ritual.
She leaned back against the tile, eyes fluttering closed as his palms slid over her collarbone, down the slope of her breasts. His thumbs circled her nipples, slick with suds, and she whimpered.
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