Yantra Protocol
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
19: The Stillness Before the Storm: Part 1
Mythology Sex Story: 19: The Stillness Before the Storm: Part 1 - Bharath moves from Chennai to Calcutta to join Heritage City — one of India’s top football clubs — with dreams of becoming a professional footballer. But after rescuing a mysterious man from a robbery, he finds himself drawn into a hidden world of vivid dreams, powerful women, and ancient forces beyond his understanding. As his journey on the pitch grows more intense, so does the pull of something deeper — a path shaped by desire, danger, and a power that is only just beginning to reveal it
Caution: This Mythology Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Mult Consensual Mind Control Romantic BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Crime Sports Alternate History Paranormal Magic Sharing Group Sex Harem Polygamy/Polyamory Indian Male Indian Female Anal Sex Exhibitionism First Oral Sex Safe Sex Squirting Tit-Fucking Indian Erotica
14 August 2000
Bharath stirred from dreams that still clung to his skin like heat. When his eyes opened, he saw her - Celina - asleep on top of him, her body molded to his like she had grown there. One thigh locked around his hips, arms looped tight around his neck, her cheek resting in the crook of his shoulder. She was still wet inside from the night before, still joined with him in that sacred clasp, her breath shallow, content.
On his left, Kim stirred next. Her cheek was nestled into his ribs, one hand curled possessively around his waist, as if she were holding a charm. As if letting go would break the spell. Her long leg draped softly across his thigh. She didn’t wake, but her lips parted slightly in a sigh, her body pressing in closer.
Then, finally, Anya, on his right - tangled and soft, bare thigh thrown lazily across his hip, her fingers stretched across his sternum. Her lips, even in sleep, looked swollen and kissed raw, her breath fluttering against his skin like a secret. A mark he didn’t remember kissing burned faintly above her breast.
He dared not move. He didn’t want to. This - this geometry of touch, this impossibly perfect alignment - felt like it had been dreamed into being.
It was Kim who murmured first, voice husky from dreams: “This ... feels right.”
Anya smiled, eyes still closed. “That’s my man! Always perfect!”
Celina mumbled, still clinging to him, “No. He’s mine. You can borrow him.”
That earned a muffled laugh from Kim.
Bharath chuckled, too, low and quiet. “What even is this?”
Anya lifted her head, propped herself up slightly. “This is our constellation.”
Celina shifted, grinding slightly into him just to feel him react. “Center star,” she purred.
Kim tilted her face to his. “Left star. For nursing and grounding.”
Anya leaned in and kissed his jaw. “Right star. For fire.”
All three of them kissed him at once.
Bharath didn’t know whether to moan or melt. He settled for both.
By the time the sunlight broke through the gauze curtains and the sounds of Calcutta began stirring below, the girls had risen - but not far. They walked through the apartment in various states of disheveled pride. Kim wore one of Bharath’s jerseys as a dress. Anya had claimed a towel and not much else. Celina had simply taken the top sheet, knotted it around her chest like a Roman empress.
Bharath emerged last, looking half-glorified, half-defeated.
They sat him down on the breakfast stool and plied him with toast, lassi, and kisses - in that order.
Priya’s door creaked open just in time for Celina to lick a drop of mango juice off Bharath’s chin.
She froze. All four of them did.
Priya stood in the hallway, hair still sleep-mussed, clutching a water bottle and the unmistakable expression of a woman who had had enough.
“I’m going out,” she said simply.
Kim blinked. “But it’s-”
“Out,” Priya repeated. “Safehouse, café, anywhere. Just-” she gestured vaguely toward them “-less ... this.”
Celina bit her lip. “Love you too, Priya.”
“Lock the balcony if you do anything illegal,” Priya muttered, grabbing her bag.
The moment the door shut behind her-
“GET HIM!” Celina shrieked.
Bharath didn’t even have time to breathe.
By late morning, he was sprawled on the living room rug, gloriously ruined.
Kim was nestled against his side, humming under her breath as she traced his chest with a lazy fingertip. Anya was at the foot of the divan, brushing his legs with her hair. Celina was laid out along his left flank, feeding him cold grapes and biting into them herself just to kiss the juice off his lips.
They had taken him three times before breakfast. Twice in the hallway. Once in the shower. They didn’t coordinate it. They didn’t need to. It was rhythm, pulse, memory - a hunger made divine.
Bharath exhaled, a sound more reverent than tired.
“You girls are going to kill me.”
“You love it,” Anya said sweetly, reaching up to stroke his cheek.
Kim grinned. “We’re just conditioning our champion.”
Celina kissed his shoulder. “You’re our talisman now.”
He closed his eyes. “I was just trying to make coffee...”
“You are the coffee,” Kim whispered. “Hot, dark, addictive.”
He groaned. “At this rate I’ll be decaf by the evening.”
But the afternoon brought rain. Not just any rain. A monsoon downpour - sudden, lush, and absolute - the kind of storm that made the world disappear in silver.
It began with a whisper. A hush of drizzle against the balcony tiles as the four of them lay sprawled in the bedroom, watching the ceiling fan circle like some ancient hypnotist. The light outside flickered and dimmed. Wind curled under the door like a curious guest. Then came the downpour - a shimmering curtain of water that swallowed the city whole.
Kim was the first to bolt upright, eyes wide. “It’s raining,” she whispered, like it was a secret.
And then she was gone - feet bare, legs flashing, a flash of cotton shorts and giggles as she threw open the balcony doors with a gasp.
Anya followed in seconds, no hesitation. She stepped outside, arms flung wide, spinning once like a girl in a sari ad, face tilted up, eyes closed as rain traced her cheekbones. “Oh my god,” she laughed. “This is heaven!”
Celina turned to Bharath, a grin curling at the edges of her mouth. “Come, jaanu.”
He groaned, pretending resistance. “I’m going to catch a cold.”
“You’ll catch us,” she teased, already pulling him by the wrist.
And then the four of them were in the storm.
The world vanished.
Nothing remained but the balcony, their bodies, and the relentless music of water - drumming against the floor, cascading off the railing, rushing down the pipes like applause from the gods.
Kim shrieked when a fat drop landed on her nose. “AH! It kissed me first!”
Anya turned, soaked already, hair plastered to her back. “The rain knows who’s cutest.”
Celina dipped her shoulders and let the rain roll down the curves of her chest. The knotted sheet she’d wrapped around herself dissolved into transparency, sticking to her like a second skin. “If it gets jealous, maybe we should put on a show.”
Bharath, already drenched, blinked against the water. “What kind of show?”
“The kind,” Anya purred, walking toward him slowly, deliberately, hips swaying beneath her wet wrap, “where the audience is blind. And all they can do is feel.”
A bolt of lightning lit the sky.
No one flinched.
Kim jumped on his back suddenly, legs wrapping around his waist, her laughter bursting out as she nuzzled his neck. “You’re warm,” she said. “I’m never letting go.”
Bharath stumbled, laughing, holding her legs to keep balance. “I’m not a water buffalo, woman-”
“Shut up and gallop,” she ordered, squeezing her thighs around him like reins.
Celina reached up and pulled him down by the collar of his soaked shirt, kissed him hard, her mouth wet and open. “Let’s make the clouds jealous.”
Anya splashed beside them, then caught his face in her hands and pressed her lips to his temple. “This is what weddings should be. No priests. No pandals. Just skin and storm.”
And the four of them exploded into movement - wild, breathless, playful chaos.
They chased each other in slow circles across the small balcony, slipping, catching, laughing. Kim stole a kiss from Celina and got spanked in return. Anya tackled Bharath against the wall and licked a droplet off his lips. Celina danced alone for a moment, eyes closed, body moving to some silent rhythm - until Bharath grabbed her waist and pulled her back into his arms.
They kissed like no one could see.
Because no one could.
The rain had become a veil - thick, silver, impenetrable. The buildings beyond the balcony were gone. Only shadows remained. The world was water and warmth and the scent of wet jasmine from the overgrown trellis beside them.
Anya reached down and untied the wrap from her hips, letting it fall.
She stood in nothing but soaked cotton briefs, unashamed, the rain painting her like ink. “No one can see us,” she said, stepping forward, pressing her bare chest to Bharath’s back. “Not even god.”
Kim slid down from his waist and turned him to face her. Her hands tugged at his soaked shirt, lifting it inch by inch, kissing every patch of skin as it appeared. “Let us worship you, in the temple of thunder.”
Celina moved behind him, her hands already slipping beneath the waistband of his shorts, slow, possessive. “Let us use you,” she whispered. “Let us drown in you.”
The rain roared louder - an orchestra of liquid desire.
Clothes disappeared, one wet scrap at a time.
The balcony floor was warm and slick beneath their feet. The wall tiles steamed slightly with body heat and weather. Bharath sank to his knees as Anya kissed him, straddled him, her thighs firm against his hips, her mouth moving from his lips to his jaw to the hollow of his throat.
Kim crouched beside them, trailing kisses along his chest, her hands cupping his face like he was a statue she was learning by touch.
Celina knelt behind him, pressing herself to his back, her arms wrapping around his waist as she whispered Tamil endearments into the curve of his shoulder blade.
They made love in the storm - not quietly, not discreetly.
But joyfully. Fiercely. In full surrender.
Anya rode him, slow and gasping, her cries half-drowned by the thunder. She held onto the balcony railing for balance, her hair stuck to her back, her body trembling with each rhythm.
Kim kissed her neck from the side, kissing Bharath too, her hands roaming over both of them.
Celina slid to the ground behind them, between Bharath’s legs, her mouth brushing his thighs as her fingers pressed and teased and coaxed - playing with the wet folds of Anya’s pleasure, making her shudder harder with each pulse.
They were soaked, tangled, and lost.
When Anya came, she did so with a moan that only the monsoon could carry.
When Bharath followed, it was with a groan torn from somewhere deep - primal, broken open by worship.
They collapsed into each other.
Breathing. Shivering. Laughing.
Kim climbed onto his chest and kissed him upside-down. “I think I’m in love with the rain,” she murmured.
“You’re in love with the man who let you climb him like a banyan tree,” Celina teased.
Anya rolled onto her side and exhaled. “I want every monsoon to be like this.”
Bharath pulled them all close, their bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces too perfectly cut to be coincidence.
He kissed each of them - Kim’s temple, Anya’s lips, Celina’s throat - and let his fingers trace lazy circles across wet skin.
“We’ll make it a ritual,” he said. “Every year. Our storm.”
And above them, the rain poured on - furious and forgiving - hiding them from the world.
Later - much later - they toweled off with slow hands and hungry glances, stolen kisses, trailing water and laughter all the way back to bed. They dozed fitfully through the afternoon heat, limbs tangled, dreams blending with whispered conversations. The monsoon had passed, but its memory lingered in their skin, in the way they touched each other with reverent fingers, in the silence that felt like prayer.
Priya returned to find them all disturbingly normal - dressed, even.
Kim was in cotton pajamas. Anya wore a robe. Celina was braiding her hair in the corner, cross-legged with a bowl of popcorn in her lap. Bharath, miraculously clothed, sat at the edge of the couch flipping channels.
Priya narrowed her eyes. “What did you break?”
“Nothing,” they chorused.
“We are going to watch Dil Se,” Kim added.
“You’re lying,” Priya said, but sat beside them anyway.
Anya passed her a samosa. “We’re bonding.”
Priya took it. “I hate how convincing you are.”
Celina leaned her head on Bharath’s shoulder. Kim crawled into his lap.
Priya stared. “You said bonding. Not orgy migration.”
“We’re cuddling,” Kim said innocently.
Bharath sighed. “I’m collateral damage.”
Priya reached for the remote. “Play the next one. Something without train dances or love triangles.”
Anya smirked. “So ... not us?”
Everyone laughed.
Even Priya.
Later that night, when the movie ended and the lights dimmed, the four of them moved quietly to the bedroom.
Kim claimed the left side again - curling in close, slipping Bharath’s hand beneath her waistband, whispering something that made him smile.
Anya took the right - curling around his thigh, nuzzling his neck, pressing soft kisses along his collarbone. Just as Kim did, she took his other hand and moaned as his fingers found purchase inside her core as well.
And Celina, with a sigh of satisfaction, climbed onto him, kissed his lips with reverence, and slid down onto him with infinite slowness wrapping her legs and arms around his muscular torso like a vine.
He groaned, “You’re insatiable.”
“You’re my ritual,” she whispered. “My breath. My home.”
Kim whimpered as his fingers moved again inside her.
Anya bit her lip, grinding softly against his leg.
They moved together - slowly, with the practiced grace of something sacred. They kissed each other. Held each other. Made each other tremble.
And when they came - one after the other, in soft pulses and ragged cries - it felt like the whole city stopped to listen.
They fell asleep like that.
Bharath at the center.
Celina impaled.
Kim kissing his chest.
Anya curled into his neck.
And the night folded them in - a living yantra, drawn not in chalk or flame, but sweat and love and skin.
A constellation of devotion.
And tomorrow, they would do it all again.
But for now - for tonight - they belonged only to each other.
14 August 2000
The landline rang just as Bharath finished wiping down the kitchen counter. Outside, thunder rolled - not the kind that promised rain, just pressure. Ominous. Coiled.
Inside, the apartment was still. Celina lay sprawled on the divan, one leg dangling, half-asleep in nothing but one of his old cotton shirts. Kim sat cross-legged near the balcony, surrounded by open books and scribbled diagrams. Anya flipped through a glossy magazine, muttering about the bad lighting in one of her photoshoots.
The phone kept ringing.
Bharath dried his hands on the apron, staring at the blinking red light of the landline.
Chennai number. Home. His heart jolted like a misfired engine.
He picked up the receiver. “Hello?” he said, instinctively stiffening, voice shifting into something neutral. Cautious.
A beat of silence. Then: “Bharath.”
Just the name. Clipped. Laced with fury. His father’s voice struck like a slap.
“What nonsense is this?”
Bharath blinked. “Appa-?”
“I just saw the Life & Lifestyle spread. Page six. A full page! You - standing like some star-struck fool with a half-dressed woman hanging off your arm!”
In the background: Amma’s alarmed voice. “Is that really our Bharath? Are you sure? That girl looked like-”
“She’s practically in his lap,” Appa snapped. “Wearing a scandalous saree like some ... item girl.”
“That’s Anya,” Bharath said, trying to breathe through the sudden tightness in his throat. “We met here. She’s-”
“A model. Yes. We know,” his father hissed, voice tightening into disgust. “That’s what the caption said - ‘Anya Das, rising Calcutta star.’ You’ve been there four weeks. And now this? What the hell is this?”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Don’t lie to me!” The crack in his father’s voice was more than anger - it was shame. Fear.
“You moved there to play football, not shack up with some glossy calendar girl!”
Bharath flinched. “She’s not- She’s not like that.”
“I’ve seen plenty of her kind. Flashy smiles. Empty heads. Sinking their nails into good boys with bright futures.”
“She doesn’t want anything from me!”
“Except your bed and your reputation!” his father roared. “Do you know how many people called me this morning? My colleagues. Your uncles. Even your cousin’s school principal. ’Did you see your son in that photoshoot?’ What am I supposed to say?”
Bharath’s knuckles whitened around the receiver. His breath hitched. “I’m not ashamed of her. Or myself. I’m playing the best football of my life.”
Silence.
Then, colder. “Is she living with you?”
The pause before Bharath answered was too long. “Yes.”
Another silence - deeper, quieter, sharper than shouting.
“Unbelievable,” his father muttered. “You’re living with a woman you’ve known less than a month?”
“She’s not the only one,” Bharath said before he could stop himself. “Kim lives here too. And Celina.”
The line went dead quiet. A silence so heavy it pulled at his chest like gravity.
Then - a whisper: “Three girls?”
When his father’s voice returned, it was flat. Lifeless. “You’ve lost your mind.”
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