Yantra Protocol
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
22: Reading the Field
Mythology Sex Story: 22: Reading the Field - 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
August 16, 2000
Bharath woke up with a smile on his lips and the warmth of goddesses all around him early in the morning.
His arms were full. Kim lay draped over his chest, her breath feathering his collarbone. Anya curled tightly into his right side, a possessive hand resting over his heart. And Celina - his storm - clung to his left, cheek pressed into his ribs, one leg tangled over his.
He didn’t move for a while. He didn’t want to. Because this ... this was joy.
Not just in the body - though his body was singing - but in the soul. These women had given him everything last night to bring in his birthday. They had offered him not just pleasure, but submission, trust, and a depth of love that still made his breath catch if he thought too hard about it.
They had made him theirs. And they had let him be theirs completely.
One by one, he kissed them awake - a soft kiss on Kim’s brow, a teasing kiss to Anya’s lips, a deep, grateful kiss against the curve of Celina’s shoulder. All three murmured sleepy things, nuzzling closer, but he managed to untangle himself without waking them fully.
After performing the morning rituals and having a quick shower, he pulled some comfortable clothes and walked into the kitchen.
Breakfast, he decided. Not just any breakfast - the breakfast. He scanned the fridge, pulled ingredients with confident hands, and got to work.
Idlis - plump and fluffy- with coconut chutney just the way Anya liked it. Poha with peanuts and fried green chillies for Kim. Toasted bread rolls stuffed with mashed potato and cheese - Celina’s obsession. And just because he could - filter coffee, strong and perfect, poured into the chipped ceramic mugs they always fought over.
As things simmered and sizzled, he took out small notepapers and wrote.
For Kim:
“My fierce healer. I’ve never felt safer being undone. You held my soul while I held your hips. Tonight, and always - you are my anchor, my breath. I can’t wait to make you scream again. Love, your Gabru.”
For Anya:
“My shona. My fire wrapped in silk. You told me to take all of you - and I will, for the rest of my life. I love the way you beg in two languages and boss me around with one eyebrow. Meet me in the shower tomorrow. I’ll worship you there too.”
For Celina, in simple English:
“To the bravest girl I’ve ever met. Last night you gave me something priceless. You didn’t just let me in - you let me stay. I will never forget how you looked when you whispered ‘yes.’ And I will spend my life making that ‘yes’ worth it.”
He grinned to himself.
No note for Priya - she’d vanished to spend the night with Devi.
Wasn’t she too old for sleepovers? he mused with affectionate amusement. Then again ... they’d clearly had an arrangement about what he’d be doing with the others last night. She’d given him space. Trusted him with the girls.
His heart swelled a little. His sister.
By 7:30 AM, the table was set. The kitchen gleamed. Bharath cleaned up, left the notes on the plates, and scribbled a final one on the fridge:
“Out to training. Don’t miss me too much. And don’t kill each other over coffee. Love, your man.”
He tugged on his training kit, grabbed his duffel, and left.
His body was light, his heart full. He hadn’t played in three days, but instead of feeling rusty, he felt electric. Powerful. The dreams had done something. Something real.
He was ready to dominate.
The sky was overcast, its grey weight pressing low over Calcutta. But the training ground was humming with energy.
Bharath was in his element.
Three days of rest - and love - had done more than revive him. They had reformed him. What he’d shared with Kim, Anya, and Celina wasn’t just indulgence or romance. It had been ritual. Their bodies had offered him more than softness - they had offered energy, alignment, and something deeper still: affirmation of self. And in the quiet aftermath, the yantra within him had stopped glowing ... but the hunger inside him to prove himself hadn’t.
Now, as his boots bit into the damp turf, he felt it again - not a flare, but a hum. A quiet, coiled spring of energy beneath his ribs, not explosive, but constant. Steady. He was light. Breathless without exhaustion. Awake without caffeine. Focused in a way he hadn’t felt in years.
“Reset! Sides tuck in! Second striker drops!”
Coach Biswas was barking from the cone at midfield, whistle dangling off his sun-darkened neck, eyes squinting beneath his salt-and-pepper mop. The team was cycling through an old 4-4-2 pattern drill, meant to teach fluid transition between midfield and final third. But Bharath had already begun anticipating the flaws in the setup.
As the second striker dropped too late and the right back overlapped too wide, Bharath shifted early - breaking formation deliberately, reading the mistake before it fully unfolded. The ball ricocheted off a defender’s thigh and he was already there, one-touching it to the number nine, then darting forward to receive the return pass in the space behind the defensive line.
A classic one-two. But faster. Crisper. Clean.
He didn’t celebrate. He didn’t pause.
Instead, he peeled away, curving back into the next rep as though the move had been nothing at all.
The assistant coach clapped. “Good vision, number eleven!”
Bharath barely acknowledged it. His mind was already ahead - scanning the next play, cataloguing shapes, memorizing runs.
Next came the box-to-box transition drill: two-touch movement inside a tight space, players rotating roles from center-mid to wingback, simulating a compressed midfield press. It was built for exhaustion. Fifteen-second bursts of chase, trap, recover, and outlet. Then do it again.
Bharath relished it.
The ball snapped between cones. Sweat darkened shirts. Breaths shortened. Mistimed tackles turned into frustrated grunts. But Bharath moved through it all like a tide around rock. He pressed high, recovered low, twisted through defenders with pivots and rolls. When a junior winger lunged to close him down, Bharath dropped a feint, pulled the ball across his heel, and danced past him without breaking stride.
He didn’t explode past them.
He floated.
Coach Biswas sucked on the fennel seed in his mouth. “Maybe you ought to get yourself injured more often.”
By the time triangle passing drills began, Bharath’s shirt clung to his torso like second skin, and his breath came harder - but his mind was clearer. He was seeing time. Not just space. Time. The ball moved toward him, and he knew - before it reached his boot - what angle to take it at, how much weight to give it, which side the next man’s body would open toward.
First touch. Second touch. Every pass was clean. Every decision sharp.
“Let’s go 4v1!” the assistant coach called. “Bharath, center. Don’t lose it.”
The rondo grid shrunk. Four defenders now, pressing him from all sides. Twenty seconds to retain the ball. No escape. Just turns, traps, fakes, and vision.
The whistle blew.
Bharath tapped the ball under his foot and turned - a defender lunged, he shifted again. Time bled into rhythm. His head swiveled, his hips followed. A flick behind his leg sent one defender sprawling. Another charge came from the side - he chipped the ball slightly, caught it on his thigh, and dropped it into the path of an approaching midfielder.
Ten seconds.
One more cutback. Another shuffle. The ball rolled just out of reach - he spun, used the inside of his right foot to drag it back and pivot, and kept it moving.
Twenty seconds.
Thirty.
The assistant whistled again. “The ball never left his feet.”
There was a small pause. The players whooped. One of the defenders muttered, “Silver Spoon’s got glue in his boots.”
Bharath finally glanced up.
And that’s when he saw them.
Two figures had appeared by the edge of the training fence.
Devi was bouncing. Literally bouncing. In jeans and a tucked-in tee, sneakers tapping the grass, waving both arms like she was trying to flag down an airplane. Beside her stood a taller man with crossed arms and a face carved in stone.
Hema Narayanan.
He didn’t shout. Didn’t wave. But his eyes didn’t move from his son.
Not with judgment. Not with rage. But with that old, quiet question only a father can ask:
Is this who I raised? Is this what he’s becoming?
Bharath caught Devi’s eye mid-run. She squealed.
“ANNA!”
He grinned. Not politely. Not vaguely.
Joyfully.
And without breaking stride, he lifted his hand in a casual salute and flicked the ball around a defender - curling it into a perfect through-ball that landed flush against the striker’s foot.
Coach Biswas snapped his fingers. “That’s it. Shut it down. Superstar needs to save some of that for match day.”
But he wasn’t smiling. Not really. He was studying Bharath now - the same way Hema was.
Because it was becoming undeniable.
Something had changed.
From the sideline, Hema murmured, “That pass ... it was like he knew the space before it existed.”
Devi grinned. “Exactly. That’s why he’s so good.”
“But ... that’s just a lucky guess, isn’t it?” Hema said, frowning. “He didn’t even look.”
“It’s called scanning, Appa,” she said. “He did look. Just three seconds earlier.”
“Three seconds?”
“Three seconds is everything.”
She pointed as Bharath received another pass - this time on the half-turn from a left-back under pressure.
“See how he lets it roll across his body? No trapping. No delay. He turns while receiving.”
The movement was fluid. Bharath didn’t just control the ball - he redirected it with intent, cutting across the pressing midfielder and launching a long diagonal switch to the opposite wing.
“Progressive play,” Devi whispered. “He’s not just reacting. He’s planning.”
Hema squinted. Bharath wasn’t flashy. He wasn’t doing rabonas or flick-ups. But he was everywhere. Always in the channel. Always supporting the ball. Always drawing defenders without ever being marked.
“He’s pulling them,” Hema said slowly. “Out of position. Just by running into space.”
Devi beamed. “That’s called occupying the half-space. It forces defenders to make bad choices. Either they follow you and break shape - or let you run and risk conceding.”
Hema watched. A defender tried to shoulder Bharath off the ball. Bharath dipped, spun, rolled the ball past his thigh, and came up sprinting.
“He doesn’t go down easy,” Hema murmured.
“Not anymore,” Devi said.
Bharath wasn’t just faster now. He was smarter. He used less movement. Less effort. His body economy was astonishing - hips shifting just enough, knees bending only when needed. He was gliding, almost meditative, across the pitch.
And the ball stuck to him.
One of the juniors fouled him near the edge of the box. Light trip, nothing harsh. Bharath fell, popped up a second later, waved off the free kick, and demanded the restart.
Biswas turned to the assistant. “He’s not even tired.”
They moved to a full-pitch scrimmage. 11v11. Tactical emphasis: zonal pressing and quick transitions.
Coach split them by training bibs - senior squad in blue, reserves in red.
Bharath wore blue. Left attacking mid.
As the whistle blew, he didn’t rush. He moved slowly. Casually. Letting the game build around him. Then - like lightning - he slipped. Not in footing. But between lines. Between defenders. Into the half-space behind the red defensive mid.
A winger darted up the left. Bharath feinted to join the play. The defense followed.
He spun - and backheeled a pass to the center-forward, who tapped it once and finished.
1–0.
A few of the red defenders cursed.
Next attack, they tried to close him down earlier.
He invited it.
Bharath waited until the defensive mid lunged. Then he flicked the ball to the right - no look - straight into the overlapping fullback’s path. The ball was squared across goal, and the striker smashed it home.
2–0.
Biswas muttered to the assistant, “He’s not playing midfield. He’s orchestrating.”
On the sideline, Devi’s jaw dropped. “Did you see that turn?”
Hema didn’t answer.
Because now, he was remembering something else.
A memory from years ago - Bharath, aged nine, dribbling barefoot in a colony courtyard, weaving between older boys like he was skating across mud. Hema had dismissed it then as childish energy.
But now ... it felt like continuity.
Like destiny, finally given room to bloom.
Twenty minutes into the scrimmage, Bharath took a knock.
The reserve center-back clipped his ankle mid-sprint. He tumbled - hard.
Players paused. Biswas winced.
But Bharath rolled, came up in a crouch, adjusted his shin guard, and said only:
“Again.”
And on the next possession, he nutmegged that same defender, stepped over the ball, and delivered a chipped assist with the outside of his boot.
3–0.
The senior squad was toying with the reserves now. But Bharath wasn’t gloating. He wasn’t talking. He was working.
He tracked back on defense. He gestured his teammates into position. He barked instructions during throw-ins. He even picked up the ball boy’s fallen cap and tossed it back with a smile.
He had become a presence.
Not just the fastest. Not just the best.
The center.
After the final whistle, Biswas blew long and sharp.
“That’s it. Cool down.”
The players jogged to the sideline, sweaty and exhausted. Bharath still had bounce in his step.
“Keep an eye on him,” Biswas said to the assistant. “He’s turning into something. I don’t know what yet. But it’s something.”
As the players trickled toward the changing rooms, one of the older defenders clapped Bharath on the back.
“That last pass? Filthy, man.”
Another added, “We’ll win Saturday if you play like that.”
Bharath just grinned, heading for the showers.
He didn’t say it aloud, but the thought pulsed beneath his skin like heat:
This isn’t even my peak.
Not yet.
Bharath walked into the club dining hall freshly showered, his hair still damp and combed back, clean training gear replacing the sweat-soaked clothes from the pitch. A dark blue FC polo and crisp track pants clung comfortably to his frame, but his eyes still sparkled with the adrenaline of the session.
Devi spotted him first from the corner table. She waved.
Hema sat beside her, his expression unreadable - but he wasn’t scowling. That in itself felt like a milestone.
As Bharath sat, a club staffer brought out his plate - a clean, protein-balanced thali monitored by the nutritionist. There was steamed rice, sautéed lau shak with moong dal, boiled aloo with turmeric, and a plain bowl of chhana for protein. At the edge of the plate, tucked in with a conspiratorial wink, was one indulgence: a golden slice of begun bhaja, still warm and glistening.
“Coach said no heavy food,” the staffer said quietly. “But the nutritionist said one birthday slice won’t kill you.”
“Thanks, dada,” Bharath grinned.
Hema arched an eyebrow. “That eggplant ... wasn’t on your plan.”
“One piece won’t ruin his balance,” Devi interjected, already halfway through her own vegetarian thali. “He’s going to burn twice that off this afternoon.”
Bharath smiled. “I have training again in forty-five minutes. This is more of a refueling than lunch.”
“You played well,” Hema said abruptly.
It caught Bharath off guard. So much so that his spoon paused in mid-air.
“Thanks,” he said carefully. “That means a lot.”
Devi leaned forward, chin propped on her hand. “Appa finally admitted you move like a dancer.”
“He did?” Bharath raised an eyebrow.
Hema shrugged. “You cover ground well. It’s economical. Nothing wasted.”
“And that cross-field switch pass?” Devi added. “Straight out of the textbook.”
Bharath chuckled. “Textbooks don’t include slipping on wet grass and making it look intentional.”
“But Coach Biswas was smiling,” Devi grinned. “And he doesn’t smile.”
“He also said you’ve become more disciplined,” Hema added. “That you listen more. And you don’t lose shape.”
Bharath looked down at his plate, hiding the quiet pride on his face. “I try.”
“He said your ceiling is high,” Hema continued. “But that you’re still raw. That if you want to go higher, you’ll have to push harder.”
“I will,” Bharath said, instantly.
Devi nudged him. “He also said you fell asleep once during video analysis.”
“I was visualizing,” Bharath muttered. “Tactically.”
“In your dreams?” Hema said, deadpan.
Bharath burst out laughing - and even Hema’s lips twitched.
The rest of the meal passed in companionable quiet. Clay cups of tok doi were brought in at the end, though Bharath only tasted his - mindful of his second session.
When they rose from the table, Bharath gave both of them a quick hug.
“You’ll head back to the apartment?”
“Yes,” Hema said. “Your mother and the girls are cooking.”
Devi rolled her eyes. “By cooking, she means directing traffic. Celina nearly chopped off her finger cutting onions.”
“Tell her not to,” Bharath said. “Please.”
Devi laughed. “No promises.”
They began walking toward the entrance, but Hema paused at the threshold.
“You’re not there yet,” he said. “But I can see the shape of something.”
Bharath nodded. “I’ll earn the rest.”
“No shortcuts,” Hema said.
“Never.”
Hema gave him a long look. Then nodded once and turned away.
As Bharath watched them go, the buzz of the afternoon session called to him - boots, cones, drills, heat. But for now, in the stillness between sprints, that was enough.
His father had watched. And stayed.
The kitchen had transformed into something alive. Steam curled from pans, mustard seeds sputtered in hot oil, and the smell of egg curry clung to the walls like a blessing. On the counter, dough was rising under a damp cloth, and someone had managed to knock over a tin of jeera, which now glittered across the marble like spice confetti.
Amidst it all, laughter rang like temple bells.
Sree was in the heart of the whirlwind - sleeves rolled up, hair loosely pinned, gently steering her would-be assistants with the grace of a woman used to multitasking between chutneys and crises.
Kim measured out turmeric with scientific precision. Anya and Celina were arguing over whether to garnish the egg curry with coriander or curry leaves. Priya was giving directions without lifting a finger.
And then Sree saw them.
Three notes - folded neatly, slightly crinkled at the corners, peeking out from under a used steel plate that still bore traces of poha and fried green chilies.
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