Their Wonder Years: Season 1: Fall 1998
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
71: The Boy at the Center
Coming of Age Sex Story: 71: The Boy at the Center - 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
After the call ended, the house came to life in a blur of motion. Mia cleared the table while Marisol began rummaging through the pantry. Maria stood near the sink, arms still crossed, watching them buzz with energy.
“What are you doing now?” she asked suspiciously.
“I’m making dinner,” Marisol said.
Maria blinked. “We don’t have anything prepped.”
“It’s okay,” Marisol said. “I know what to do.”
Maria’s eyes narrowed. “Know what to do with what?”
Mia grinned. “She’s making Indian food. One of Bharath’s favorites. I bought all the ingredients just now.”
“You know how to make Indian food?” Maria looked halfway between horrified and impressed.
Marisol opened the bags Mia brought back from the supermarket and pulled out lentils, a tin of turmeric, and a box of basmati rice. She then pulled out ingredients like chillis, cumin, ginger and garlic from the cabinet. “I’ve been learning. Watching him. Helping. I wanted to surprise him. We’ve been noting down all the recipes he gets from his mother when he talks with his family every week.”
Maria’s jaw dropped when she saw Marisol crush garlic with the side of a knife, measure cumin with confidence, and start a masala base in a large pan with onions, tomatoes, and green chili.
“Why is it all ... vegetarian?” she asked, skeptically.
Mia piped up from the corner as she washed cilantro. “You know he doesn’t eat meat. Neither do Zara and Ayesha.”
Maria frowned. “He’s not making you give it up, is he? You know that’s not right. You shouldn’t lose your culture because of him.”
Marisol laughed. “No. He’s not making us do anything. We still eat what we want. But tonight? This is for him and of course Zara and Ayesha.”
Maria watched in stunned silence as Marisol sautéed spices, added lentils, and layered fragrant basmati into the pot. Mia helped prepare the naan dough under Marisol’s direction.
For a brief moment, the kitchen didn’t feel like a war zone of beliefs and generational heartbreak. It felt like a normal day at the Rivera house.
Maria leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching them chop and stir and move around each other like they’d rehearsed it. It unsettled her and comforted her. Both at once. Her daughters actually knew how to cook now. And even cook foreign food. She had never thought it possible. Mia used to help her with desserts every Sunday - but she had given up on Marisol’s culinary skills. She felt oddly proud of seeing her daughters in the kitchen.
“How are you two so calm?” Maria asked suddenly.
Mia and Marisol froze, exchanging a glance.
“We’re not,” Mia admitted. “My hands have been shaking since we hung up.”
Marisol nodded. “This might be the most important conversation we’ve ever had, Mama. Of course we’re scared.”
Maria frowned, surprised. “Scared? Of me?”
“No,” Marisol said softly. “Scared of losing you.”
Maria’s breath hitched. She hadn’t expected that. She had expected stubbornness. Defiance. But not ... vulnerability.
Mia put down the cilantro and wiped her hands on a towel. “You’re our mother. You’re the root of everything. If today goes badly...”
She didn’t finish.
Marisol swallowed. “If you say you want nothing to do with us anymore ... I don’t know what I’d do.”
Maria blinked rapidly. Her throat tightened. “Mija ... I would never disown you.”
“You almost did,” Mia whispered. “That night...”
Maria turned away, guilt slicing through her. “I ... I wasn’t myself. I was afraid.”
Marisol stepped closer. “So are we.”
For a moment, all three of them hovered there ... two daughters, one mother ... all terrified of the same thing: losing each other.
The pot bubbled softly behind them, filling the silence with the smell of garlic and turmeric. It mixed strangely with the sharp sting of fear in all their throats. Family dinners weren’t supposed to feel like final exams. But somehow this one did. Maria glanced at the clock above the stove. Half an hour. Maybe less. That was all that stood between now and the moment this strange new “family” walked through her front door.
She rubbed her thumb over the smooth bead of her rosary in her pocket, the words of every prayer she knew colliding uselessly in her head.
What do I even say to this boy?
Thank you for loving my daughters?
Thank you for not turning me into the Police and breaking my family apart?
Stay away from my daughters?
When the aromas began to waft through the house, even Maria had to admit - it smelled good. Familiar yet foreign. Strange yet comforting.
Maria pointed suspiciously at the pot. “Is it supposed to smell like that? Why are you adding so many spices?”
“Yes,” Marisol said, rolling her eyes affectionately. “It’s masala, Mama.”
“It smells like someone lit a candle inside a chili pepper.”
“It’s okay, Mama,” Mia giggled. “That means it’s working.”
Maria shook her head, muttering in Spanish. “I don’t understand how this boy convinced my daughters that eating so much spices at seven in the evening without any meat is romantic.”
Mia snorted. “He didn’t convince us. We just ... like doing things for him. Plus are you really telling me you don’t like the smell of this mama?”
“No ... it smells nice,” admitted Maria hesitantly. “But I’ve never eaten a meal with no meat in it at all. This feels wrong.”
Marisol took a second to go hug her mother. “Maybe it’s time to expand your way of thinking, mami. Trust us. Bharath loves this. And you will too!”
“That’s what worries me,” Maria shot back. “I’ve seen men who inspire devotion. They’re usually the ones you have to run from.”
“Not him,” Mia said quickly. “He’s different.”
Maria set her jaw. “You keep saying that. But I haven’t heard one reason today that doesn’t sound like some cheap telenovela fantasy. You are both locas.”
Marisol placed a hand on her hip. “Then listen tonight.”
Maria opened her mouth to retort ... then stopped. Something in Marisol’s tone held her. She did not want to get herself worked up like the other night again. Maria took a deep breath and decided to stem the anger and frustration building inside her.
“Fine,” Maria said. “I will listen. But I will also judge.”
Mia grinned. “We expect nothing less. Here ... taste this mami.”
“Dios,” she muttered under her breath. “If he makes food like this, maybe I’d fall for him too.”
Mia and Marisol burst out laughing.
They sat down in the living room, the table set, the food warming in the oven. Maria, still in denial, had insisted on doing her hair and putting on lipstick before the guests arrived. She claimed it was to keep up appearances. But she checked the mirror twice. She didn’t want anyone to see her at her worst again.
When the doorbell finally rang, there was no ceremony - just Maria opening the door and letting the light pour in around them as the girls were still in the kitchen cooking.
Bharath stood there, flanked by Zara and Ayesha. Sarah came in behind them with a bottle of mango juice and a sheepish smile.
Bharath held a single lily in his good hand.
“For you, Ma’am,” he said.
Maria looked at the flower, then at the boy. She still had a lot of reservations about him. He was still not Latino. Worse, he was not Catholic. And even worse, he was still surrounded by women that were all apparently his women.
And yet ... he somehow still managed to have an air of humility about him that she still could not understand. She had seen macho playboys before. They did not behave like this boy. They were full of themselves and full of swagger. Not to mention they were all fake men who could never keep one woman for long - let alone these beauties. There was something about this alien boy from a faraway land that she still could not bring herself to trust. If only this boy could behave the same way. It would be so much easier to appeal to her daughters. Why did he not behave like a typical macho?
Seeing her open the door, he smiled as if she hadn’t tried to kill him just a couple of days ago. He bowed his head slightly, not in submission, but in respect, hands stretched out with the beautiful lily in his hand.
She took the lily, said a quick hello to the girls that were hovering around him protectively and then, turned toward the kitchen. She didn’t make a fuss, but her eyes ... had softened.
What is it about this boy that makes him so special? Why are all these girls crazy about him? She could not for the life of her figure it out.
Maria walked back into the kitchen with the flower clutched in her hand, the petals delicate as breath. She didn’t say a word to the girls. She didn’t have to.
The second Marisol heard his voice calling out for them from the doorway, the wooden spoon slipped from her fingers and clattered into the lentil pot.
Mia gasped aloud from the sink, her hands still slick with soapy water. “He’s here?!”
There was a blur of motion.
Two girls. Two daughters who were in the middle of cooking. Gone. Like a looney toons cartoon.
Maria stood there, dumbfounded, still holding the damn flower, as the house erupted into squeals and bare feet thudding across the tile. She quickly turned off the stove and the boiling lentils. It was obvious that her daughters didn’t care if the house burned down because he had come.
She turned slowly, stepping into the archway between the kitchen and living room just in time to see the chaos unfold.
And chaos it was.
Marisol reached Bharath first. She launched into his arms with a cry that was part sob, part moan, and entirely inappropriate given the presence of her mother ten feet away.
“Mi corazon!... ” she cried, her hands flying over his face, his cheeks, his hair, checking every wound like her fingers could erase the evidence of pain. “Let me see. Oh God-your face. Your arm. Your neck!”
Bharath grimaced as she accidentally brushed too hard near the bandage.
“Careful,” Zara warned playfully. “He’s still healing.”
“I did this?” Maria gasped before she could stop herself. Even though she had opened the door, she had somehow not even noticed how much damage she had caused the boy. Now, seeing her daughter fuss over him brought back the terrible memories from two nights back.
Everyone turned.
It was the first time she had spoken aloud since she took the flower.
Bharath’s eyes met hers gently. “It wasn’t your fault, ma’am. You were trying to protect your daughters.”
Maria blinked. “But your neck-”
Marisol gently pulled the collar of his shirt down, revealing a series of raised, rapidly healing scratches. Angry pink welts trailed down the curve of his throat, across the clavicle.
Mia appeared beside them now, visibly vibrating with the effort not to fling herself at him. But then she saw the wounds too.
“Madre de dios!” she whispered. “You didn’t tell me it was this bad.”
He shrugged. “It’s nothing. Actually, they said it could be worse. I was lucky. It was just a few scratches”
Maria stared at the damage.
The neck. The cheekbone. The angry stripe along his jaw. Even the way he held his arm gingerly, like it might pull open again.
It wasn’t nothing.
She had done that.
She, the woman who’d taught her daughters never to raise their voices in anger. Who had never once slapped them growing up. Who quoted “love is patient, love is kind” like a lullaby.
She had tried to stab this boy.
And now ... Now her daughters were kissing him. Right there. In the open. In her living room. In front of his other girlfriends. It felt surreal to Maria. She felt faint as Marisol kissed his mouth like he was her warrior returned from war. Her knees went weak when she saw Mia whisper against his skin, something in Spanish that Maria couldn’t make out.
Mia tucked herself under his good arm like a kitten returning to its warm sunspot. “I missed you so much yesterday, mi amor. I love you,” she mumbled into his chest.
Maria stood frozen.
What kind of spell was this?
Her girls. Her flesh and blood were clinging to this boy as if he were their oxygen. The other girls - Ayesha, Zara, Sarah - stood a few feet away, watching it all with grins and soft laughter, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Sarah leaned in close to Zara. “Marisol’s not gonna let him breathe for a week. She hasn’t been away from him for this long since August.”
Maria felt like her brain short-circuited.
Was this was a joke?
The boy who took her daughters’ virginity? Who lay with all of them? She felt like screaming. This was the boy who had led both her daughters to sin. Multiple times! And here they were acting like his concubines! In front of their mother and his girlfriends. As if no one else existed! This was sin! This was not right!
Her daughters were both in his arms right now. At the same time! Every sermon she’d grown up hearing thundered in her ears. No priest had ever mentioned a world where two sisters kissed the same boy in front of their mother.
Marisol pulled Bharath to the couch and was straddling his thigh, raining kisses all over him while Mia sat on the other thigh, kissing him from the other side. Maria’s eyes bulged.
“Marisol! Mia! Que estas haciendo? Es mi casa! Get off him!” she barked.
Marisol blinked and looked over her shoulder.
“Oh,” she said, as if suddenly remembering they weren’t alone.
But she didn’t move. Instead, she adjusted her hips so as not to press into his injured arm and whispered something to Mia, who giggled and nuzzled deeper under Bharath’s chin.
Maria took one step forward. “Girls.”
Bharath finally looked up.
His voice was calm. “You’re forgetting your mother.”
The effect was immediate.
Mia sat up straight. Marisol slid off his lap - reluctantly - but stayed perched on the arm of the couch, one hand still tangled in his curls.
They looked sheepish but not apologetic.
Maria crossed her arms. She was at the end of her tether. They weren’t even ashamed! They weren’t even pretending. She had seen jealousy destroy women. She had seen marriages collapse because a man so much as flirted with someone at the church bake sale.
But here were five women - five - watching each other kiss and touch and whisper to the same man. And none of them were fighting. They weren’t even jealous. They were... glowing. Like it was natural. Like it wasn’t a sin!
And it confounded her.
After grudgingly watching the boy get her two daughters to behave, Maria sank into the old floral couch with a huff. They listened to him now. As if he were more important to them than her. They didn’t even care that they were sinning in front of her! Yet, when the boy told them to behave - they acted like well trained animals. Maria tried to distract herself from getting worked up again. She couldn’t lose control again like the other night. She was better than this!
Her hands still smelled faintly of spices - remnants of the dinner she watched her daughter prepare in her own Cuban kitchen. The kitchen where pork had once been sacred. The kitchen where she had tried to teach Marisol to roll plantains and Mia to stir sugar into coffee with a wooden spoon passed down from her mother.
And now?
That kitchen was filled with turmeric, naan, lentils - and laughter. The kind that felt intimate. Private. Something that she did not share with these young adults. She stared out at the living room, blinking in disbelief. They were all there. Like a scene from some surreal play no one had warned her was in production.
Bharath, sitting on the couch like he was meant to be there. His arm bandaged. His face marked with healing scratches-her scratches.
And her daughters. Still wrapped around him like ivy.
Marisol had one thigh casually slung across his lap, her head resting on his one shoulder, fingers grazing the line of his jaw like she was re-learning the geography of his face. Mia had nestled herself beside him, curled into his side like she was returning home after years at sea.
They weren’t being obscene. Not exactly. But they weren’t restrained either. Not even with her in the room. It was the casualness of it that undid her. The normalcy. Like it was always like this. And worse still-when Bharath had gently reminded them, “Girls ... your mom’s here,” they had obeyed.
Not with annoyance. But with warmth.
Like he’d flipped a switch. Not control. Not authority. Just ... gentle gravity. And they adjusted, without a complaint.
Maria pressed a hand to her temple. She was dizzy. Absolutely dizzy.
What the hell was this boy?
She looked to the other girls, sitting nearby like handmaidens to a royal court.
Ayesha and Zara had taken up spots near the coffee table, cross-legged, still giggling softly about something Mia had whispered. Sarah sat perched on the armrest of the second couch, sipping from a glass of mango juice and watching the canoodling trio with an amused, affectionate expression.
They weren’t tense. They weren’t waiting for their “turn” or staking out territory.
They were just... there. They all looked so peaceful and content. As if their boyfriend was not in the arms of two other beautiful women.
Maria couldn’t fathom it.
These girls were beautiful. Model-beautiful. Different shades of divine - ivory, caramel and coffee, rose gold and almond. Each one of them looked like the kind of girl Maria would have assumed could walk into any room and make men turn stupid.
And yet ... here they were. Worshiping the same boy. Sharing him. Smiling while they watched other women touch him. She didn’t understand it. Couldn’t even find a place in her body to start understanding it.
Her eyes landed on Sarah. That one especially confounded her.
Sarah looked like a woman who had walked out of a high-end perfume ad. She was curvy in all the right places, every inch of her looking like it had been airbrushed for a magazine cover. Her face was beautiful. She had soft blonde hair like something out of a fairytale, and cheekbones that could cut glass. When Maria had first seen her, she had instinctively braced herself - not against her beauty, but against what it meant.
A girl like that didn’t share. A girl like that usually took. And yet, here she was, smiling softly at the way Marisol was tracing the outline of Bharath’s fingers.
Maria leaned over a little, curiosity overtaking her. “Sarah, can I ask you something?”
Sarah looked up, surprised but not alarmed. “Of course.”
“Why him?”
There was no venom in the question. There was no accusation. Just the bewilderment that one woman felt, to another. Sarah smiled, then looked down at her drink.
Maria expected a snarky answer. Or a rehearsed one.
Instead, she got this.
“He saved my life,” Sarah said, voice low. “In more ways than one. He is my life.”
Maria tilted her head.
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