Their Wonder Years: Fall 98

Chapter 172: At the Boutique (2)

The upstairs changing room of Apsara Couture was a maze of silks, mirrors, and mayhem.

Bharath stood at the center of it all, dazed. Trapped. Bewildered. He was surrounded by the richest colors of the subcontinent - royal blue, emerald green, deep maroon, and gold so bright it shimmered like fire - and, more alarmingly, by three gorgeous women in various states of undress, all of whom seemed to think he was the solution to their problem.

A very specific, very perilous problem.

“We need your hands,” Marisol said, frustrated, turning her back to him.

“Again?” Bharath asked, his voice rising with alarm and wonder as he stared at the strings of her choli.

“Yes, again,” Sarah called from across the room. “They keep coming undone. It’s like these blouses were designed to fall off.”

“They were,” Mia said brightly, adjusting her lehenga over her hips. “It’s half the appeal.”

Bharath’s brain nearly short-circuited. He had come here to help with a few final costume fittings before the Diwali performance. What he walked into was something far more hazardous: a whirlwind of bare backs, rebellious busts, and the unmistakable realization that not a single one of them was wearing a bra.

“Okay,” he mumbled, stepping behind Marisol. “Just-don’t move.”

She giggled. “That’s what I told you last time.”

He began threading the intricate tie behind her back, the silk cords already loosened from their brief attempt at movement. His fingers brushed warm skin as he tried to keep his hands steady. Every breath she took made it harder to focus.

Marisol looked over her shoulder, smiling slyly. “You’re breathing funny.”

“I’m concentrating,” he hissed. “On not dying.”

She shifted slightly - the soft curve of her back flexing under his palm - and suddenly the top tie slipped again.

Bharath sighed. “It’s like trying to tie a knot on a water balloon. That’s... also breathing.”

Sarah, watching from the mirror across the room, laughed. “You’re doing great. You should add this to your resume: Choli Combat Technician.”

“I’m going to need a pension after this,” he muttered, finally securing the knot and stepping back.

But the moment Marisol turned, the choli tugged again - this time strained from the front - and the knot threatened to unravel.

Sarah clicked her tongue. “I told you - it’s not the knot. It’s the boobs.”

Bharath blinked. “Sorry?”

“The boobs,” Sarah repeated, more helpfully this time. “There’s too much pressure on the front. These blouses aren’t made for women with actual curves. They’re made for mannequins.”

“God help us when we start dancing,” Marisol added.

Mia emerged from behind the curtain next, her lehenga fully fastened, sitting beautifully on her fabulous body, but her choli… still hanging from her neck like a polite suggestion.

“Bharath,” she said sweetly. “Can you help with mine?”

His heart skipped.

Oh God.

She looked like an apsara. A sinful dream in soft pink and silver. Her breasts looked like they were praying to be released-barely, barely contained by that delicate slip of embroidered silk.

Bharath felt the floor vanish beneath him.

It wasn’t just hot.

It was personal.

It was every half-formed fantasy from his boyhood - of movie heroines, calendar girls, temple dancers - now alive and wicked and sitting inches from him, asking for help while spilling out of tradition like temptation made flesh.

“No,” he said immediately.

She pouted. “But it won’t stay up.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“You tied Marisol’s.”

“Yes I did.”

Sarah stood now, tugging hers down in the back. “Okay, then maybe you should do mine instead. Because I just did a spin and flashed the entire window.”

“Mia first,” Marisol said, already tying her dupatta to cover herself for a moment. “Let’s not destroy the poor boy all at once.”

Bharath sighed, defeated, as Mia turned her bare back to him and pulled her hair to one side. The choli cords dangled like a trap. Her skin was soft, golden, flawless - the small of her back a perfect curve leading down into the gentle flare of her waist. She smelled like strawberries and youth and something deeply unwise.

He focused.

Thread. Pull. Loop.

Mia wriggled. “Too tight.”

He adjusted.

She breathed in.

The top slipped again.

“It’s the boobs,” Sarah called helpfully from the corner.

“Yes, I know it’s the boobs,” he snapped.

Mia giggled and reached behind her, brushing his fingers. “I don’t mind if it’s a little tighter, you know.”

Bharath flinched like he’d been struck.

“You’re doing great,” Marisol said, draping her dupatta in front of the mirror, mostly to give him a break from the sensory assault.

Sarah wasn’t helping. She stood now, choli completely unfastened, back to him in the mirror, fanning herself with a dupatta.

“Can someone please help me hook this thing? It’s like trying to staple Jell-O.”

Bharath turned slowly. “You want me to do it?”

“Unless you’d rather Mia do it.”

Mia grinned.

“I’ll do it,” Bharath muttered recalling their tutoring session. He wasn’t sure he could survive a repeat of that right now.

He walked over carefully, as if stepping through landmines. Sarah stood still, arms up slightly, the choli draped across her chest but unhooked in the back. Her skin was already flushed from the heat and the teasing. The top gaped slightly, revealing just a hint of side curve. She watched him through the mirror as he approached, a smile playing at her lips.

“This is an extended torture session, isn’t it?” he asked.

“From the tutoring session?” she asked innocently. “Maybe.”

He reached up to the tiny hooks and tried not to look down. Or sideways. Or at all. Her skin was soft beneath his knuckles. Her breath caught as he pulled the fabric snug.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“Mmhm,” she moaned softly into his ear. “Just a little… overstimulated.”

He fumbled the hook.

She giggled.

“Got it,” he squeaked, finally stepping back.

Sarah turned and faced him fully now - the choli secure but doing absolutely nothing to hide the lush curves beneath. “How do I look?”

“Like temptation incarnate,” he said admiringly.

She smirked. “Good answer.”

Mia returned to the mirror, examining herself critically. “This really does nothing for support.”

Marisol walked up beside her. “Which is the point, I think.”

The three of them now stood before the massive mirror, side by side: Marisol in shimmering wine-red with gold trim, Sarah in deep peacock blue, and Mia in that provocative pastel pink and silver. All three cholis were tight enough to threaten rebellion, all three lehengas riding low on bare waists.

And none of them - he was now absolutely sure - had worn a bra or panties.

They looked like actual apsaras who’d stepped out of Indraloka for a calendar shoot designed specifically to ruin him.

He sat down on the nearest ottoman and buried his face in his hands.

“I give up.”

“You okay, baby?” Marisol said, walking over.

“No,” he mumbled. “I’m having a crisis. A real, spiritual crisis.”

Sarah tilted her head. “Too much?”

“Yes. Too much! You’re all… too much.”

Marisol laughed low. “You really like us in Indian clothes, huh?”

He didn’t answer. He was trying not to explode.

Sarah smirked. “Noted. We’ll keep that in mind.”

Marisol traced a finger down his chest. “Maybe we'll wear this to bed next time. Cholis. No bottoms. I must say I like what it does to our busts. They look spectacular.”

Sarah nodded sagely looking at the outrageous cleavage on display.

Bharath groaned and covered his face again.

“Say it,” Marisol coaxed. “You love us like this.”

“I worship you like this,” he breathed. “You look like dreams I didn’t know I was allowed to have.”