Yantra Protocol
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
23: Threads
Mythology Sex Story: 23: Threads - 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
17 August 2000
The morning was golden with that sleepy monsoon hush - a reluctant sunrise peeking through misted windows, ceiling fans stirring the air like a half-forgotten dream. The apartment smelled of masala chai, warm ghee, and the slightest trace of lavender shampoo from the girls’ showers.
The knock came just as Bharath was placing a steaming bowl of pongal on the table.
Anya opened the door to find Sree, Hema, and Devi standing there, all with travel bags in hand and smiles that barely hid the heaviness underneath.
“You came early amma,” Anya said, blinking through a yawn.
“We wanted to see him before we left,” Sree replied, stepping in with a mother’s familiarity.
Priya was already half inside, nose in the air. “Is that ... is that breakfast? Bharath made breakfast?”
Bharath emerged from the kitchen, still in his training tracks and damp hair. “Of course I made breakfast. Don’t act like this is the first time, you ungrateful wretch. Amma, appa, come - sit. Devi, stop sniffing like a puppy and get a plate.”
Within minutes, the family was seated around the table, laughter starting to return in small, hesitant waves. Sree took her first spoonful and raised her brows.
“This is really good,” she said. “Better than your father’s pongal, I dare say.”
Hema made a noise somewhere between a snort and a harrumph. “I taught him the tempering part.”
Bharath grinned. “You supervised me once when I was twelve. That doesn’t count.”
Celina watched from the corner of the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe, eyes shining. Kim stood beside her, wiping her hands from dish duty, her expression soft.
Devi, now halfway through her pongal, pointed her spoon at her brother. “You actually cook. Like - not just heat Maggi.”
“I’ve been holding this house together, Devi,” he said, mock-offended. “These girls would starve without me.”
“Oh, please,” Anya mumbled. “We’d eat cheese and toast like royalty.”
“And die in a week,” Priya muttered.
They all laughed.
But it was short-lived - because Bharath’s bag was packed and the clock was ticking.
He stood, stretching. “I should go.”
“Already?” Devi pouted.
“Training,” he said. “Back to full schedule today.”
He hugged Sree first, gently.
She pulled him aside, away from the others.
Her voice dropped, but it wasn’t stern - it was motherly steel wrapped in silk.
“Don’t screw this up, da,” she said. “Whatever this is - these girls, this fight - you take it seriously. You lead them right.”
“I will,” he said. “I promise.”
He kissed her forehead. She wiped at her eyes and swatted his arm.
Then Devi jumped in, flinging her arms around him. “I’m gonna miss you, Anna. And I’m taking your pillow.”
“You’re not,” he said. “It smells like Kim.”
Kim turned red.
Sree dragged Devi off, laughing. “Enough.”
Hema nodded at his son, then patted his shoulder - nothing more, but Bharath understood. It was enough.
They all watched him leave, his figure disappearing down the corridor toward the stairs.
The apartment grew quieter after Bharath’s departure, but not still. Sree lingered near the kitchen, wiping her hands instinctively on a dishtowel, even though the counter was already spotless. She glanced around once more - not at the furniture, but at the people. Her eyes found each girl, one by one.
Celina hovered near the hallway, a faint sheen of emotion clinging to her despite her effort to stay composed. Priya stood beside her, her usual calm now shaded with something more tender, protective.
Devi had picked up a photo of Bharath and Anya from the shelf and was teasing Anya in a loud whisper. “This one’s frame-worthy. You both look like you just finished a magazine cover shoot and a fight with each other.”
Anya rolled her eyes but smiled. “That’s every Tuesday for us.”
Sree stepped forward and wrapped Anya in a warm, prolonged hug. “Take care of him, kanna. You have a strength in you that pulls people together.”
Anya looked surprised for a second - then blinked fast. “I will, Amma. I promise.”
She didn’t let go right away. Sree’s embrace wasn’t just motherly. It was complete - like a shelter you hadn’t realized you needed until you stepped into it.
Celina stood next, a little stiff, uncertain.
Sree held her too - not with hesitation, but with the same fierce gentleness. “You’re safe now. I don’t know your whole story yet. But you’re here, and you’re brave. That’s enough.”
Celina finally leaned in, nodding against her shoulder.
Kim came forward last. She hesitated, her usual composure dipping for just a second. “I ... I’ve never had anyone like you before.”
Sree placed a hand on her cheek and smiled. “Then start now. I’m here. For you too.”
Kim smiled through a tight throat. “Thank you ... Amma.”
Then, just as they were about to say goodbye, Priya stepped forward, folding her arms like she wasn’t quite sure how to behave. “I’m usually not good with goodbyes.”
Devi rolled her eyes. “You’re terrible at them. Come here.”
She grabbed Priya into a hug, and Sree joined, enveloping her as well.
“I don’t care what your past looks like,” Sree said into her hair. “You’re my daughter now, if you’ll have me.”
Priya didn’t answer with words. Her body answered - sagging into the embrace like someone who had been holding herself up for too long.
When they finally pulled apart, there were no dry eyes left in the room.
“Come,” Hema called gently from the door. “We’ll miss the taxi.”
The farewells were quick after that. Celina and Priya stayed inside, waving from the threshold. Hema, Kim, and Anya accompanied Sree and Devi out to the waiting car.
As the vehicle rolled away, Sree’s hand remained against the window until the last second - a slow farewell that felt too soon.
When Hema returned from seeing them off, he found Priya already seated, a manila folder open in front of her.
“We’ll be safe here for now,” Priya said as he sat opposite her. “But not forever.”
“I’ll bring in a PI agency from Chennai,” Hema said. “Veterans. Discreet. We can’t risk local surveillance. This can’t leak.”
Priya nodded. “That’s good. We have names already - partygoers from the gala, handlers, suspicious properties. I’ve marked four key locations. I can hand them over once I sort the notes.”
“What’s your endgame?” Hema asked.
“Exposure,” Priya replied. “But smart exposure. If we go too fast, they’ll vanish before we strike. We need a net. And we need to cripple their legitimacy first.”
“Which means press,” Hema said.
“I have someone in mind,” Priya said. “His name is Satyabrata Roy. Satyu. I’ve met him twice. He’s curious. He’s digging, but not recklessly.”
“I’ll look into him,” Hema said. “If he’s clean, we’ll loop him in later. Not now.”
“Agreed,” Priya said. “Too early.”
Hema sipped the tea Kim had left on the table. “This flat - it’s still safe?”
“For now,” Priya said. “But we’re blending in, not hiding. The more normal we look, the more invisible we become.”
Hema smiled faintly. “Good thinking.”
Anya leaned against the counter, twirling the receiver cord of the landline between her fingers. Her brow was furrowed, eyes unfocused as she listened to the dial tone.
“She hasn’t called in days,” she murmured.
Priya, sitting at the table with a newspaper open and her tea cooling beside her, glanced up. “That’s not like her.”
“No.” Anya bit her lip. “She might be planning something. Or drinking. Or both.”
They exchanged a look.
“Do you think we should call her?” Anya asked, already knowing the answer.
Priya nodded. “We need intel. The streets have gone quiet. Too quiet. I dare not go to see my girls right now. It’s too dangerous for them.”
Anya took a breath and dialed.
The phone rang. Once. Twice. A third time.
Then:
“Helllooo?” The voice was slurred, the accent unmistakable - Rekha Das, irritated and unmistakably drunk.
“Maa?” Anya’s voice dropped instinctively into daughterly politeness. “It’s me.”
There was a pause. Then a dry chuckle. “Oh. So now you remember I exist?”
“Maa, I-”
“No no, please,” Rekha said, the sarcasm barely contained. “Don’t interrupt your little dream house nonsense just for me. I’m only your mother. Only the woman who gave you everything. Including that apartment you’re playing house in.”
Anya winced.
Priya, from her seat, motioned for her to keep going. Her notepad was already out.
“I’ve been busy,” Anya said evenly. “A lot’s happened after the gala-”
“Oh please,” Rekha snapped. “The gala. You think that was your moment? That you can just prance around Calcutta with your boy toy and forget who you are?”
“Maa, he’s not-”
“You forget who owns you, Anya.”
The words hit like acid.
“You don’t get to vanish. You don’t get to ignore me. I held you back from the real work. Protected you. And this is how you repay me?”
Anya said nothing.
“You think you’re safe in that apartment? That I can’t pull the plug at any moment?” Rekha’s voice rose. “You think this is over? That because I’ve been quiet, I’m not watching?”
“Why are you so angry?” Anya asked quietly.
Rekha laughed bitterly. “You’ve made a fool of me. You forget your place, Anya. And what happens to girls who think they’ve outgrown me?”
She didn’t wait for an answer.
“They fall. Hard. Just like Celina. You remember her? The little showpiece from Mumbai. Beautiful, dumb, proud. We sold her to Bansal - big price, easy payout. Her uncle’s debts gone. But what does she do? Tries to run. Bites. Scratches. Gets herself beaten half to death.”
Priya’s eyes widened. She leaned closer, scribbling furiously.
Anya steadied herself. “What happened to her?”
“She’s dead,” Rekha snapped. “Or as good as. Probably bled out in some drain. But I cleaned it up, like always. Used a different body, matched the build, threw in a note, gave it to a journalist. Overdose story. Sad little aspiring model - familiar, pathetic. Tied up in a bow.”
“Maa...”
“You think you’re better than her?” Rekha hissed. “You think love makes you safe? That boy - he’s a toy. A phase. A weakness. If you don’t come back to me, I’ll move on him next. You know how many men I’ve buried, Anya? You’ve seen what I do to liabilities.”
Anya’s voice wavered. “Are you threatening him?”
“I’m warning you,” Rekha growled. “Bring him back into the fold. Make him loyal. Play your part. Or he’s gone. Men are replaceable, Anya. You know that. I don’t care if he’s Hema Narayanan’s son.”
She paused, breathing hard.
“I raised you to rule. Not to play house in silk sheets.”
Anya’s hand tightened around the receiver. “You raised me to be a pawn.”
“You’re my daughter. You’ll always be mine. And if you don’t fly back home soon ... I’ll clip those pretty little wings myself.”
There was a long silence.
Then Rekha said coldly, “You remember who you are. Before someone else decides it for you.”
The line went dead.
Anya stood frozen, the receiver still pressed to her ear.
Priya got up and gently lowered it. Her eyes were wide. Her notebook was full.
“She gave us everything,” Priya whispered. “Her buyer. Her method. Her weakness.”
Anya’s voice cracked. “She’s going to hurt him.”
“She won’t,” Priya said firmly. “We’ll be ready. And Appa’s PI team - they’ll know where to start now. With Bansal.”
They stood in silence for a moment longer.
And then - steel settled into their spines.
The grand lobby of the Taj Bengal buzzed with polished ease - marble floors, gold-trimmed chandeliers, liveried staff moving like whispers. Anya Das strode through it like she belonged, because she did. Her soft teal salwar shimmered faintly with every step, the dupatta draped just-so across her shoulder. Beside her, Priya walked with her usual quiet grace, eyes scanning subtly without looking nervous.
A few guests at the cafe turned to look. Anya gave a casual smile, pausing only once when a hotel photographer asked for a candid snap - nothing unusual for an established face of the Calcutta fashion world. She posed quickly, then moved on.
At the far side of the lobby, a hostess from the front desk approached them. “Miss Das? Right this way, please.”
The woman led them through a corridor that skirted the kitchen, past a pair of staff elevators, and down to a secluded lounge nestled between banquet halls. The air was cooler here, the lighting softer. The door opened to reveal a round table, already set with cold water, notepads, and four chairs.
Hema Narayanan rose to greet them. His crisp shirt and watch looked more business meeting than family reunion today.
“Ladies,” he said. “Thank you for coming. We’re safe here. No one followed.”
Two others sat inside: a woman in her late thirties with short hair and no jewelry, and a stern, solid man with a battered leather satchel. They rose when Priya and Anya entered.
“This is Meher and Khan,” Hema said. “They head the team I’ve brought in. Discreet. Ex-police, both of them.”
Meher gave a respectful nod. “We’ll be listening more than talking. You speak, we ask what we need.”
Priya didn’t sit immediately. She reached into her bag and pulled out a brown folder, the kind that looked innocuous enough to hold bills. She placed it on the table.
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