Yantra Protocol
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
21: Held
Mythology Sex Story: 21: Held - 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
15 August 2000
Bharath woke slowly.
There was no jolt, no dread, no shadows in the room. Only the soft hush of ceiling fans and the morning sun bleeding through the curtains, streaking golden light across tangled sheets and bare skin.
Kim lay to his left, one hand curled beneath her cheek, the other still resting lightly over his chest - as if to keep his heartbeat steady even in sleep. Her dark lashes fluttered slightly, lips parted, face serene.
Anya had migrated in the night and now lay half atop him, her right leg hooked possessively over his thigh, her cheek nestled against his shoulder. A faint line of dried drool shimmered where it had touched his skin. He smiled.
And Celina - wild, uncontainable Celina - had stretched across them both like a protective shawl. One arm slung across Kim’s waist, her head pillowed on Bharath’s chest, her breath warm against his neck.
They looked like a sculpture in breath and cotton.
His goddesses.
His heart swelled.
Carefully, he slipped free of their limbs. Not to leave - just to worship.
He moved through the bedroom like a priest in his sanctum, reverent and barefoot. He picked up the small brass bowl from the nightstand - filled with water infused with vetiver and rose, a mix Kim had left there two nights ago. He added a drop of sandalwood oil from the vial tucked into Anya’s skincare box. Then he knelt beside the bed.
He began with Kim.
Pressing a cool palm to her feet, then her forehead.
“You are my clarity,” he whispered. “You steady me when I falter. You see the world in lines and circles and still find poetry between them. You walk beside me like a mirror with mercy. And I will never let you walk alone.”
He turned to Celina next.
She stirred, murmuring something indistinct.
He touched her ankle, then brushed a thumb gently along her jaw.
“You are my fire,” he said. “My storm-bringer. You scare the world that tried to break you. And still you laugh, still you dance, still you love. I will hold your rage when you can’t. And I will shield your softness, always.”
And then Anya.
His first. His anchor.
He pressed his lips to her temple and lingered there.
“You are my pulse,” he breathed. “You found me when I didn’t know I was missing. You saw me when I didn’t know I was visible. You loved me when I didn’t know I was worthy. You are the reason the dream became real.”
As if on cue, her eyes fluttered open.
She blinked. Then smiled - slow, crooked, gloriously smug.
“You talk to yourself often, superstar?” she rasped.
Kim stirred next, stretching. Celina blinked once, groaned, then burrowed into Bharath’s chest again.
He smiled. “Only when I’m in the presence of goddesses.”
Anya propped herself up. “And here I thought I’d have to fight Kim for the ‘first wifey’ position.”
“I can be left flank,” Kim murmured, half-asleep. “I’m good at defense.”
“I call center,” Celina mumbled against his ribs. “You all rotate around me.”
Laughter crackled softly through the bed.
Then Bharath sat up and looked at them - truly looked.
“I mean it,” he said. “Last night ... changed something. Watching my parents, watching all of you stand by me ... It made me realize what matters. Who matters.”
He exhaled, voice soft but unwavering.
“You three are the most important people in my life now. I don’t mean that lightly. Not counting Priya, or my parents, or Devi - you three are it. There’s no ambition, no dream, no match that matters more than this. Than you.”
The teasing vanished from their faces.
Kim was the first to speak.
“I want to believe that,” she said quietly. “But ... I don’t know if my parents ever will. They’re good people. Loving. But conservative. One girl, one boy. That’s their shape for the world. I don’t think I fit in that anymore.”
Anya sat up, reaching out to take her hand.
“We’ll make new shapes,” she said. “And if they can’t accept that ... we still will.”
“You have us,” Celina added, voice fierce and low. “Till the end. Whatever that means.”
Bharath leaned in, pressing his forehead to Kim’s.
“We’re your family now,” he said. “And we’re not going anywhere.”
The four of them sat wrapped in that silence - stronger than steel, warmer than dawn.
The day would demand plans. Meetings. Strategies.
But for this hour, in this bed, with these women wrapped around him like limbs of a greater self
Bharath felt whole.
The Oberoi wore its Independence Day colours with quiet pride. Tricolor streamers fluttered from the terrace. A small hand-drawn flag was tucked into each napkin ring. Near the café’s pastry counter, a boy in a velvet waistcoat handed out ladoos from a brass tray beneath a garland-framed portrait of Nehru.
The sitar version of Vande Mataram played from a tape deck in the background - the kind of thing only noticed when it clicked, rewound, and restarted.
In a curtained alcove off the main dining area, Hema Narayanan sat with a notepad open and pen uncapped. He was already dressed for the day - neatly ironed linen shirt, sleeves rolled halfway, temple ash faint on his forehead from the morning puja. His brow was furrowed with concentration.
Sree stirred her coffee beside him, wrapped in a deep maroon cotton saree with a green border. She said little - but her watchful eyes missed nothing.
Devi wore a short kurti over jeans, damp hair clipped up. A tiny tricolor ribbon was pinned above her heart like a badge of good behavior.
Priya sat across from them, her posture composed, dupatta neatly folded. Her worn leather handbag sat at her side - its weight sagging from the files within.
Hema cleared his throat and tapped his pen once on the table. “You said you’ve been collecting information. How?”
Priya opened the satchel and took out a thick file wrapped in old newspaper. She untied the string binding it and passed across a sheaf of classified ads, street posters, and photocopied newspaper clippings, many circled in blue ink or annotated in tight Bengali handwriting.
“From here,” she said simply. “Mostly the classifieds in Anandabazar, Bartaman, and The Telegraph. Some from Ajkal. We read through every issue from the last three years, cross-checking for patterns.”
Devi leaned in. “You went through all the back issues?”
“Anya gets access through her press contacts,” Priya replied. “Some libraries, too. And a couple of shady magazine archivists who don’t ask questions.”
Sree raised an eyebrow. “So this is all real?”
“Yes,” Priya said. “But this only gives us names and dates. The context comes from street-level intel.”
Hema sat back. “Which means...?”
“I ask my girls. I listen to bellboys, makeup artists, paanwalas, drivers, bar staff. I remember what they say. Where a girl used to stand. Which girl didn’t come back after a shoot. What name stopped being mentioned.”
She pointed to a few hand-marked pages. “See this? That same politician was seen in all three events where different girls went missing. Different districts. All high-profile fundraisers. No official case reports. But the pattern’s clear.”
Sree picked up one of the pages. It was a tiny black-and-white clipping from March 1999: Missing: Sabita Nandy, 17. Last seen near Howrah station wearing a blue salwar. Contact: Chatterjee Family, Dum Dum.
Below it, Priya had written in ballpoint: Mentioned by Soma, Club Vedanta, April 1999. Disappeared after private “event” at Hastings bungalow. Suspect linked to Rekha’s guest list.
Hema’s eyes sharpened. “That handwriting’s yours?”
Priya nodded. “Everything is logged manually. No computers. No typewriters. We can’t afford a paper trail anyone can trace.”
“You don’t keep backups?”
“We keep duplicates. Hidden in places no one would think to look. Anya’s stylist’s cupboard. A backroom in Kalighat. One girl even keeps pages tucked behind the photos in a godown’s calendar. She doesn’t know what they say. Just that they’re important.”
Devi muttered, “You’re running this like a spy ring.”
Priya didn’t blink. “Because that’s what it takes.”
Hema turned a few more pages in silence. The clippings were old, yellowing, sometimes smudged. But the connections - photos circled, party names underlined, suspect guest overlaps noted - were meticulous.
“And Celina?” he asked. “Where does she fit?”
Priya pulled out a Polaroid of Celina taken just two days ago - her face pale, eyes shadowed, but alive.
“She’s our witness. Not a full insider. But she remembers her buyer. And she knows the property she was held in.”
“And you’re sure the Syndicate hasn’t traced her here?”
“Not yet,” Priya said. “They know someone’s missing. But they don’t know who rescued her or where she is.”
Sree’s voice came softly. “And they’ll come?”
Priya nodded. “Eventually.”
Hema tapped the table. “Then we can’t just play defense. You need fallback routes. Safe house plans. Evac protocols. Is Bharath prepared for that?”
“He will be,” Priya said.
“And you?” Hema asked, his voice quieter now. “You’ve seen what they do to girls like you. You ready for what happens if they find out?”
“I already know,” she said, just as quiet. “They’ve tried before.”
There was a long pause.
Then Hema folded the file shut and looked across at her with something new in his eyes. Not approval. Not acceptance. But something that might - someday - become both.
“You need logistics. Let me help,” he said.
“I won’t let you risk your business,” Priya said.
“I can absorb the risk,” Hema replied. “We’ve gotten this far. Now we make it last.”
Sree reached over and placed her hand over his - gently, but firmly.
Devi, finishing her coffee, grinned. “Operation Amma-Appa is a go.”
And for a brief, flickering second, even Priya smiled.
The gallery was packed. Not with critics or collectors - those would come later. This morning, the Calcutta Arts Forum hosted something more ceremonial: a showcase of patriotic sketches by schoolchildren, a series of framed khadi-themed posters, and one half-finished mural featuring Gandhi, Tagore, and a floating Ashoka Chakra.
Anya posed gracefully under one of the larger canvas prints - a black-and-white reinterpretation of the Dandi March - as a journalist snapped pictures. She wore a pale orange salwar suit with hand-embroidered white chikan work, elegant and publicity-appropriate. Her makeup was light; her poise effortless.
Priya stood a few paces behind, clipboard in hand, a dark kurti and dupatta lending her the look of an efficient, invisible assistant.
She wasn’t invisible for long.
“Still managing the revolution from the wings, Priya?”
She turned before she could school her expression.
Satyabrata Roy was dressed semi-casually in a linen shirt and slacks. A khadi satchel hung at his side. His press ID was tucked into his collar, more for show than access. He didn’t smile - not exactly - but his voice held that soft tilt of a man who knew he was being avoided.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Priya said evenly.
Satyu gestured vaguely. “I’m freelance now. Cultural beat. Independence Day’s a goldmine for shallow patriotism. Great filler for page ten.”
She didn’t laugh. She didn’t scowl either.
He rocked slightly on his heels. “Did you get my note?”
“I did.”
“You didn’t respond.”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
He studied her a beat longer. “About whether you trust me?”
“About whether it’s time.”
They stood near a table of student paintings. A boy’s watercolour of a tricolor waving over a banyan tree bled faintly at the edges - too much water, not enough gum.
Satyu broke the silence. “I’ve heard whispers. Elgin Road. Someone missing. Someone powerful angry.”
“Be careful what you hear,” Priya said. “Whispers can cut deeper than truth.”
He nodded slowly. “And yet ... here you are. Still in the middle of it.”
She turned slightly, keeping her tone neutral. “I’m not here for the art.”
“I know,” he said. “You’re here to watch. I’m here to see who’s watching you.”
Their eyes locked - a flicker of understanding in the middle of a polite battlefield.
Then she took a quiet step forward, her voice low but crystal clear.
“There may come a time, Satyabrata, when I’ll need someone who can write the truth and protect the people inside it. If that time comes ... I’ll know where to find you.”
She didn’t wait for his reply.
Priya turned and walked back to Anya, clipboard rising like a shield. They were already being approached by another photographer.
Satyu watched her go, lips pursed - not in frustration, but calculation. He knew this wasn’t a brush-off. It was a warning.
And maybe an invitation.
The Independence Day crowds had thinned by late afternoon, leaving the shaded walking trail near Safari Park pleasantly quiet. The late monsoon breeze stirred the branches overhead. Gulmohar petals drifted to the earth like slow-falling confetti.
Bharath and his father walked in silence, the space between them not tense, but dense - like air before a storm.
Hema kept his hands clasped behind his back, a posture Bharath knew well. It meant he was thinking deeply - not judging, but calculating. The stance of a man used to managing chaos with systems, not sentiment.
Finally, Hema spoke.
“That Priya girl,” he said, eyes forward. “She’s ... something else.”
Bharath looked at him sideways, cautious.
“She is,” he said carefully.
Hema nodded once. “Sharp. Controlled. Speaks with purpose. No waste. I’ve sat across boardroom tables with people twice her age who had half her clarity.”
That startled Bharath more than he let on. But he stayed quiet.
“She doesn’t belong to you, does she?” Hema asked, almost musing aloud. “Not in the way the others do.”
“No,” Bharath said softly. “She’s ... family. But not like that.”
Hema exhaled slowly. “I still don’t understand this. Three women. One man. It feels-” he shook his head, “-imbalanced.”
Bharath didn’t answer.
“You know your mother is the only woman I’ve ever loved?” Hema said, glancing briefly at his son. “Thirty years. Never looked at anyone else. Never wanted to. She completes my world.”
“I know,” Bharath said.
“I’m not judging you,” Hema said. “But I don’t understand it. How do three women share one man and not fall apart? You think this peace will last?”
Bharath took a deep breath, then stopped walking. They stood under a tamarind tree, its trunk gnarled, roots exposed like veins beneath the earth.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t have answers. I only know ... when I’m with them, I feel complete. Like they’re not competing for space in my life - they are the life.”
Hema turned to face him fully.
“But the honeymoon ends, Bharath. One day it stops being new. The laughter dulls. Someone feels neglected. What then?”
Bharath looked down at his hands, then back up at his father.
“Then we work at it,” he said quietly. “Like you and Amma did. Like anyone who chooses to stay.”
Hema searched his son’s face for a long moment.
“You think love is enough?”
“I think this love is,” Bharath said.
Hema’s expression didn’t change - but the weight in his gaze softened.
After a long silence, he said, “You’ve chosen a hard path, son. But if you’re going to walk it ... then walk it with eyes open.”
“I will.”
They began walking again.
After a few steps, Hema added, “I still don’t understand it. But last night ... when your mother saw how they looked at you - the way they hovered, wrapped around you like limbs - she said something I didn’t expect.”
“What?”
“She said it may be strange. But it’s not fake.”
Bharath blinked. Then smiled. “That’s Amma for you.”
They walked another twenty steps.
Then Hema said, “Do you know what worries me most?”
“That I’m not focused on football?”
Hema gave him a sideways glance. “That I don’t recognize the man you’re becoming.”
Bharath’s voice was low. “I’m still your son.”
“You were a boy when you left,” Hema said. “Smart. Impulsive. Obsessive. I could read every move you made before you made it. You wanted my approval. Even when you acted like you didn’t.”
Bharath looked away.
Hema continued, “Now you speak like a man who doesn’t need permission. Or approval. You make choices without waiting. You protect people I’ve never met as if they were yours.”
“They are mine,” Bharath said, quiet but clear.
“That’s what I don’t recognize,” Hema admitted. “Not because it’s wrong. But because it’s ... beyond what I taught you.”
Another pause.
Then Bharath said, “You taught me discipline. Purpose. How to chase something until it became mine. You taught me how to bear pressure.”
He glanced at his father. “That’s what I used. Not what I left behind.”
Hema didn’t respond immediately. But his eyes flicked downward, to the path ahead.
“You’re young,” he said. “And you’re in love. With three women. Which even saying aloud sounds like I’ve lost my mind.”
“I know,” Bharath said. “But I didn’t choose them like trophies. I found them. Or they found me. The dreams, the yantra, the prophecy - I can’t explain it in a way that makes sense on paper. But I feel it in my blood.”
Hema grunted. “And how long does blood carry purpose before it spills?”
That landed. Bharath stopped walking.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I’d rather spill it protecting something that matters than wasting it trying to impress the world.”
Hema turned to face him.
For a long time, he didn’t speak. His eyes scanned his son’s face - no longer a boy’s face, not anymore.
Then he said, “You remind me of your grandfather.”
Bharath blinked. “I thought Thatha was a banker.”
“He was. And a unionist. And the reason I never joined student politics.”
Hema’s lips pressed together, not in a frown - in memory.
“He once told me, ‘Don’t be proud of how long you survive. Be proud of who still stands with you when you fall.’”
He looked at Bharath again.
“You’ve chosen your people. I still don’t understand them. But I see how they stand with you.”
Bharath swallowed.
“Appa,” he said. “I’m not asking you to like this. But I want you to know ... I’m not confused. Or reckless. I’ve never been more clear in my life.”
They resumed walking.
After a moment, Hema murmured, “Then walk clear, Bharath. But walk ready.”
And Bharath, quietly, nodded.
The knock at the door was gentle, but something about it carried weight - the kind that made Anya’s breath catch before she even turned the handle. She opened it slowly.
Sree and Devi stood there. Alone. No Hema, no formality, no questions. Just presence.
Sree’s eyes searched hers, soft but unsparing. “Can we come in?”
Anya nodded. “Of course.”
There were no smiles rehearsed for comfort, no battle stances or family drama. Just the quiet of a moment that had waited far too long to arrive. Devi held a bowl of sweets in both hands - rasmalai, delicate and handmade - and offered it like a gift, like a peace treaty.
Celina stepped forward wordlessly and took it, hands brushing Devi’s for a second too long. Kim moved into action, not quite knowing what else to do. She brought water for everyone, her hands steady but her face uncertain.