Their Wonder Years: Season 1: Fall 1998
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
73: The Breakthrough
Coming of Age Sex Story: 73: The Breakthrough - 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 sound of the front door clicking shut echoed in the tense quiet.
Bharath stepped inside first, moving carefully around the bandage on his arm. The red scratches on his face and neck, where Maria had clawed at him two days ago, were still stark. He met her gaze as she turned in the hallway, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She didn’t look away.
The five girls hovered in the doorway, a nervous wall of concern.
“Bharath, wait,” Zara said, her voice tight. She reached for his hand. “You don’t have to do this alone. Not after last time.”
He turned and gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “I do. I need to.” His voice was low, meant for all of them. “Please, just give us the room. Wait in the kitchen. No listening at the door.”
Sarah stepped forward, her eyes flicking to her mother’s stony face. “And what’s the plan if she comes at you again? We’re just supposed to wait for yelling?”
“There won’t be any yelling,” he said, and the certainty in his tone made them all pause. He offered Sarah a faint, tired smile. “And if there is, you’ll hear it. Now, please. Go.”
Marisol shook her head, her arms folded. “What if she throws something at you?”
Bharath’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Then I’ll duck. Now go. Please.”
They didn’t like it. He could see the protest in their eyes, the fear. But when he asked firmly this way, they ultimately couldn’t refuse. It was the same look that had calmed storms between them before.
With reluctant glances back, they shuffled toward the kitchen. When the door swung shut behind them, the hallway plunged into a heavy, waiting quiet.
Maria hadn’t moved. She studied him, her eyes tracing the marks on his skin, her own face pale.
“You came back,” she said finally. It wasn’t a question.
“I did.”
She took a shaky breath, her gaze dropping to his bandaged arm. “Thank you. And ... again, I am sorry for all that.”
“It’s okay,” he said, his voice soft. “I think it’s time we started to move past this. I consider you family. Things happen within families.”
She looked away, her jaw tight. The old anger was still there, but it was fraying at the edges, revealing the raw hurt beneath. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter, stripped of its earlier sharpness.
“You don’t have to call me ma’am,” she said after what felt like an eternity. “Call me Maria.”
Bharath nodded, a genuine warmth touching his expression for the first time. “Yes, Maria.”
As the kitchen door swung shut, Marisol didn’t turn toward the table. Instead, she half-dragged, half-led the others down the hall toward her room.
Once inside, the door clicked shut and the collective nerves began to spill into jittery movements. Ayesha crossed her arms. Zara dropped onto the bed like she was collapsing after a battle. Sarah paced a little, glancing at the window like she might try to eavesdrop through the walls.
“I hate this,” Zara muttered. “It’s like waiting for a verdict from a judge who already sentenced you two days ago.”
“She did more than sentence him that night,” Ayesha said, her voice quiet. “She tried to stab him. She scratched him so badly that he looked like someone’s indoor cat went feral on him.”
Marisol exhaled sharply. “I know. God, I still feel sick when I think about it.”
“But he’s in there anyway,” Sarah said, watching her. “Because he’s not afraid of her.”
Marisol gave a soft, reverent nod. “Because he’s him.”
The silence that followed was heavy.
Sarah was the first to break the mood. She looked around, curiosity kicking in. “Okay. We need a distraction.”
Zara perked up, grateful. “Agreed.”
They all turned to take in the room.
It was nothing like any of them had expected.
Marisol’s room was simple. Softly feminine, but mature. The walls were painted a pale sea-glass green. Books lined one wall in neat rows, spanning poetry, psychology, and a surprising number of philosophy titles. Her bed was perfectly made - a cream comforter with a woven quilt folded at the foot, likely handmade by her grandmother.
Her vanity was covered in delicate perfumes and neatly arranged makeup - but there was no clutter. No chaos.
“Holy crap,” Sarah whispered. “It’s like Martha Stewart and a librarian had a baby.”
“You actually make your bed?” Zara asked incredulously. “Like ... daily?”
Marisol rolled her eyes. “Yes, because I’m a grown adult. Who do you think makes our bed everyday back at the house?”
Zara bashfully replied, “I did wonder how the bed got made everyday. Long may you continue, my queen.”
Mia, meanwhile, had already plopped onto the rug and pulled out a shoebox from under the bed. “Ooooh what’s this?”
“Mia ... Don’t!” Marisol began, but it was too late.
Mia pulled out a bundle of folded notes, old Polaroids, and high school memorabilia. The others swarmed around like moths to a flame.
Ayesha picked up a photo. “Wait ... is this you in a cheer uniform?”
Marisol groaned. “Oh God. Yes. I was one until Junior year. I quit halfway through.”
“Why?” Sarah asked.
“Because the team was toxic. All drama and no brains. I couldn’t stand the phoniness and the bitchiness in the squad.”
“Sounds familiar,” Zara quipped, elbowing Mia.
Mia ignored her, unfolding one of the notes. “Dear Mari ... oh my God, is this a love letter?”
“Give me that!” Marisol lunged, laughing as she grabbed it away.
Sarah smirked. “So. The Ice Princess had admirers.”
“She still does,” Mia said smugly. “You know she turned down our high school’s starting quarterback when he asked her to prom?”
“No way,” Ayesha said, eyes wide. “Really?”
“She did,” Mia confirmed. “He asked her in front of the whole cafeteria. He had those heart balloons, a handmade sign, the whole thing. She just looked at him and said ‘No. Thank you.’ And then sat back down like he had asked to borrow money from her.”
Zara looked stunned. “That’s savage.”
“It was iconic,” Mia said. “She was a legend after that.”
Sarah gave a low whistle. “So what, you weren’t dating anyone at all?”
Marisol shrugged, sitting on the bed. “I dated plenty. But, I didn’t want any of them. It all felt ... shallow. Like a performance. I think ... I was saving myself.”
The room went quiet.
“For him?” Ayesha asked softly.
Marisol nodded. “I didn’t know it at the time. But now? I’m sure of it. My body, my heart - it was waiting for him.”
There was a pause.
Then Mia grinned wickedly. “That didn’t stop you from having the biggest crush on Freddie Prinze Jr.”
“Oh my God,” Marisol groaned. “Mia!”
“It’s true!” Mia said, flopping dramatically onto the bed. “She watched She’s All That like five times in a row one summer.”
Ayesha gasped. “Wait ... are you saying you were into the ‘makeover-the-nerd-girl’ trope?”
“She was the nerd girl ... only she was already hot,” Mia cackled. “And she still wanted someone to pull her into a slow dance under twinkling lights.”
Marisol grabbed a pillow and threw it at her. “I hate you.”
“I’m your sister,” Mia said smugly. “Same thing.”
The tension finally cracked, the room bursting into laughter and teases. Even Ayesha, who had been the most nervous, started digging through the box with a mischievous grin.
“Oooooh is this a diary?” she asked.
Marisol practically leapt off the bed. “Don’t you dare.”
But the moment felt warm now. Light. The nerves about Maria’s wrath gave way to shared stories, giggles, and a glimpse into Marisol’s life before she was “the queen of Table 7.” Before she was Bharath’s first.
Zara flopped onto the rug, sighing. “It’s weird.”
“What is?” Ayesha asked.
Zara tilted her head toward Marisol. “Thinking of you as ... normal. With high school drama. And crushes. And ... diaries.”
Marisol smiled. “I was normal. Just frozen. Waiting for someone to come thaw me out.”
Sarah nodded slowly. “And now?”
Marisol looked toward the door.
“Now I’m fire. An apsara. Bharath’s apsara. Just like all of you.”
The girls laughed, but beneath all the laughter and bonding, their ears still tilted toward the front of the house.
The girls quieted slowly, unconsciously, each turning slightly toward the closed door, as if willing it to stay shut ... and open ... all at once.
Sarah whispered, “Do you think she’s yelling?”
Zara shook her head. “No. If she were yelling, we’d hear it.”
Ayesha pulled her knees up to her chest. “I think this is scarier.”
Marisol was quiet for a long time.
Then she said, softly, “He’ll be okay. He’s him.”
And they believed her.
Because for all the chaos in this world, Bharath always kept his promises.----
The late afternoon sun spilled across the quiet suburban street like honey. Shadows stretched lazily from the oaks lining the sidewalk, leaves whispering in the warm Atlanta breeze. Maria walked ahead, arms crossed, her rosary swinging gently in one hand. Bharath followed a few steps behind, careful not to limp too visibly.
“Come,” Maria said, gesturing to the curb. “Let’s walk.”
They turned down the street past her neighbor’s freshly mowed lawn. A sprinkler hissed somewhere in the distance. For a while, there was only silence. Maria walked slowly, purposefully. She didn’t look at him.
“That’s my house,” she said, pointing to the modest two-story with stucco walls and blue trim. “It’s nothing fancy. I paid off the mortgage last year.”
Bharath smiled. “It’s beautiful.”
Maria nodded, her voice soft. “It took me eighteen years to buy one.”
He said nothing, sensing the weight in her tone.
“I was barely nineteen,” she continued. “Ricardo had just walked out on me. Marisol was still in diapers. Mia - just six months old.”
Her voice didn’t tremble. It was too used to the story. Too familiar with the scars.
“I had no money, no skills, or any support. Just two babies and a heart full of shame. I didn’t understand why my husband left me. He said he had loved me more than life itself when I came here with him.”
Bharath listened, his throat tight.
“I was pretty back then,” she said without pride. “Not that it helped. Beauty is a currency, yes, but it’s one that attracts the wrong kind of buyers.”
She looked out over the sidewalk.
“Men saw a young, desperate girl. An immigrant. Alone. I didn’t even speak English properly back then. They offered me help. And always ... always ... they wanted something in return.”
Bharath’s fists clenched slightly.
“I cleaned houses,” Maria continued. “I took night shifts at diners. I learned English from church bulletins and soap operas. I went hungry sometimes so the girls could eat. I prayed my way through days that felt endless.”
She stopped walking and turned to him.
“Do you know what it means to walk into every room thinking someone will either pity you or want to use you?”
Bharath shook his head. “No. I can’t pretend I do.”
Maria nodded. “I didn’t date. I didn’t trust anyone. I still don’t. My belief in men was ... shattered. I only believed in God and my daughters. And even He tested me sometimes.”
She pointed back at the house again. “That place. Every tile. Every lightbulb. That’s me. My blood. My sweat.”
Bharath swallowed hard. His heart suddenly felt heavy.
“They grew up watching me. I was strict. Angry, sometimes. Not always fair. But I loved them. Fiercely. They were my everything.”
She paused again.
“So imagine what it felt like, mijo. To see them throw their hearts into a strange ... arrangement. With one man. A boy who had no idea what life could really take from you.”
He looked down, ashamed.
But Maria wasn’t finished.
“I watched you,” she said. “And I saw how they looked at you. I saw what you were to them. But I didn’t understand. I thought you were just ... like those other men. Looking to take advantage of some teenage girls for your lust.”
She tried to look him in the eyes.
“But that day at the hospital and every time I talk to my girls ... I see something else. I still cannot believe that five beautiful and smart girls can commit themselves to one boy. Still, at least I can see what they see in you now. I don’t understand ... but I can see that you are not a bad person.”
Her voice dropped.
“I still don’t understand why you fought for me at the hospital the other night. You didn’t hit back at me even when I was trying to kill you. I am not like that ... but I ... was not myself that night.”
Bharath blinked. “Maria...”
But she held up her hand. “Let me finish.”
She took a breath. And another.
She stopped walking, facing him fully, her eyes fierce with shame. “That is an explanation, mijo, not an excuse. What I did ... it was evil. It cannot happen again. I am starting to see someone. If that ... that animal feeling comes again, I will walk out of the house before I lift a hand. You have my word.”
Then her voice broke. “You remind me of me when I was their age...”
That made him look up.
“I see the way you look at them. The way you carry the weight of all of them. The way you listen. The way you speak gently but mean everything you say.”
Bharath’s throat was suddenly dry.
“You’re not perfect ... But you’re trying. That matters.”
She stepped closer now. Her voice cracked slightly. “And when you said you wanted me to be your mother ... not like a mother - but truly your mother - I realized ... I never got to hear that.”
“What do you mean?” he asked softly.
“No one’s ever thanked me,” she said. “Not like that. Not for staying. For surviving. For keeping them safe. Not even my girls. I know they love me. I know they admire me. But no one’s ever held me and said, ‘You did it. You mattered.’”
Before she could stop herself, she started to cry. Not sobs of hysteria. But the slow, heart-cracking tears of a woman who hadn’t let go in twenty years.
And Bharath, without a word, stepped forward and hugged her.
Gently. Warmly. With both arms, pulling her into him like she was family.
“Thank you,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Thank you for everything you did. For them. For yourself. You’re a goddess in your own right. Without you, I would not have found my soulmates.”
Maria’s shoulders shook.
She clung to him like she never wanted to let go.
They stood like that for what felt like an eternity, two hearts, once distant, suddenly bound by a shared reverence for the women they both cherished.
“I still don’t understand it,” she whispered against his chest. “This relationship. I still don’t ... know if I can accept it.”
“I understand,” Bharath said gently.
“But I will try,” she said. “For them. For you. I don’t know if God would approve. But maybe He sent you anyway.”
He closed his eyes.
“That’s more than I could ever ask.”
When they walked back, their steps were softer. Lighter. The air felt fresher.
And when they turned the corner toward the house, the girls were already waiting on the porch - all five of them.
Sarah nudged Mia and whispered, “Look.”
They watched as Bharath, without hesitation, wrapped his arm around Maria again at the base of the porch stairs.
Maria’s cheeks were still wet. But she was smiling.
The girls didn’t say anything.
They didn’t need to. They knew. This was the moment.
The breakthrough.
And from here ... maybe they could build everything. Together.
They followed them inside, the air in the hallway still charged from the silent moment on the porch. Maria led the way, not to the living room, but to the heart of the house - the kitchen.
Maria blinked, her gaze moving from one face to the next, then settling on Bharath. His ears were pink again, like he was embarrassed to be the center of attention.
What hit her hardest wasn’t the romance. It was how comfortable they were. In her own kitchen, they moved around each other like they’d done it a hundred times - passing a bowl, bumping shoulders, trading quick looks and small smiles. Nobody seemed left out. Nobody seemed smaller.
She watched her daughters. Mia was just ... staring at him, soft and dreamy. Marisol looked at him like she trusted him with her life.
The laughter from moments before - Mia accidentally calling Marisol “Mommy” during a group cuddle, faded into a comfortable quiet. Then Zara, popping a grape into her mouth, mumbled something cheeky under her breath to Ayesha. The girls, who had just been laughing about.
“Girls.”
Bharath’s voice was low. A single note, but it cut through the room.
The laughter died. Just like that. Zara stopped chewing. Sarah’s teasing smile faded. All of them turned to him, not scared, but ... ready. Present. Maria had seen men command rooms with shouts. This boy did it with a whisper, and the way they leaned into that quiet was more powerful than any order. He looked almost embarrassed by it.
Maria’s breath caught. This was the piece she’d been missing. It wasn’t submission; it was alignment.
They weren’t shrinking for him. They were choosing him. Choosing to settle when he asked them to settle. Choosing to listen when he asked them to listen. And he wasn’t using it to make himself bigger. He looked tired. Embarrassed. Like he’d rather disappear into the wallpaper than be anyone’s “leader.”
Maria finally spoke, her voice softer than she intended. “You all fit. Like one ... whole thing.”
The girls exchanged glances, a silent conversation flashing between them.
Mia nodded. “We do Mami. He’s the glue,” she said, simple as a fact.
“And the solid ground,” Ayesha added softly.
Maria let out a small breath through her nose, half laugh, half disbelief. She looked at Bharath again - really looked. Despite the bandage and the scratches he held himself proudly, like he was trying not to show pain. And under it, something steady. A boy, yes. But not a careless one.
Her logic still didn’t understand this. Her mother-instinct did.
Maria took a sip of tea, mostly so she had something to do with her hands. Then she set the mug down, the little click in the quiet kitchen sounding louder than it should’ve.
“So,” she said, folding her hands on the table and looking at all of them, not just Bharath. “Let’s talk about the future.”
Bharath sat straighter, his fingers tracing the edge of his bandage. The playful warmth from moments before had cooled into something taut and expectant.
Maria’s eyes held his, then swept over her daughters. “I see it now,” she said, her voice low. “I see the love. I can’t pretend I understand it, but I see it’s real.”
Marisol’s hand found hers on the table, and Maria let her fingers intertwine with her daughter’s.
“But love isn’t a roof,” Maria continued, her practical nature reasserting itself. “It doesn’t keep the rain out. What does your life look like? A year from now? Five? You can’t just ... float on feelings.”
The kitchen, so full of laughter earlier, felt suddenly small. Mia looked down at her lap.
“I need to hear it,” Maria pressed, her tone not harsh, but weary with a mother’s worry. “What happens when things get hard? Truly hard? When there are bills, or a crisis, or ... babies?” She said the last word carefully, watching their faces.
Bharath let the question settle. He didn’t look to the girls for answers; this was a burden he met head-on.
“We know it’s not just about us,” he said, his voice steady. “That’s why marriage and children aren’t even on our map right now. We have to build something that can hold all of us first. They need to finish school, start their careers, figure out who they are as women before they ever think about being mothers.”
Sarah jumped in, her voice firm. “We’ve talked about this, Maria. A lot. We want our own degrees, our own footing. We won’t be dependent.”
“We’re a family,” Zara added. “But we’re individuals first. He wouldn’t respect us if we weren’t.”
Bharath nodded, his gaze returning to Maria. “I want to make it clear that I want to ensure that nothing and no one dims their light. Not even me. And that includes not rushing them into roles the world expects. The family we’re building ... it has to be strong enough to protect their dreams.”
He paused, searching for the right words. “And part of that strength is you. I would never, ever ask them to choose. Your love isn’t a rival to mine. It’s the bedrock. I see you in their strength every single day. I’m in awe of it.”
Maria’s stern expression softened, just a fracture.
Bharath’s voice dropped, more vulnerable now. “I know I can never thank you enough for the women they are. But thank you. And I hope ... in time ... I can earn the right to be more than just their boyfriend to you. I’d be honored if you saw me as part of your family, too.”
He glanced at Zara and Ayesha. “And I pray their parents, one day, will see it the same way.”
Zara reached out and laced her fingers with his good hand. “They will.”
Ayesha nodded, eyes wet. “They’d be fools not to.”
The raw sincerity in his words seemed to disarm Maria’s final defense. He wasn’t spinning fantasies; he was acknowledging the weight of reality and asking for her place within their struggle to meet it.
She looked at her daughters again, not as confused girls, but as a united front with a sober, shared resolve. They weren’t asking for a blessing on a whim; they were showing her the foundations they were already trying to lay.
Maria let out a slow breath, the fight leaving her shoulders. She gave Marisol’s hand a final squeeze before withdrawing her own.
“Alright,” she said, the word a quiet concession to the new, complicated reality in her kitchen. “So, no weddings. No babies. Not for a long time.” She looked at Bharath, a new, grudging respect in her eyes. “Then let’s talk about what is next. The very next step.”
Maria’s voice was low now. “What if your family disowns you?”
Bharath was silent for a long moment. Maria saw his throat work as he swallowed. He looked down at his hands, then at each of the girls, drawing strength from their faces. When he looked up, his smile was small, brave, and tinged with a sadness that made him look older.
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