Yantra Protocol
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
24: The Fall of Fall of Satyu
Mythology Sex Story: 24: The Fall of Fall of Satyu - 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
19 August 2000
Satyabrata “Satyu” Roy sat at his desk, the overhead fan rattling slightly above him. His workspace was a quiet rebellion in a loud newsroom - neatly stacked articles, red-inked edits, a battered old thesaurus, and an untouched cup of tea gone cold.
He adjusted his glasses and stared at the thin, cheaply printed newspaper in his hands. The headline was small, tucked into the bottom corner of page three:
“Young Model Found Dead: Suspected Overdose in Ballygunge Guesthouse”
The article was barely 150 words. It mentioned no name, but the details felt off. The location, the age, the description. And the reporter byline?
Rishi Naskar.
Satyu exhaled through his nose.
Rishi was no journalist. He was a broker - a glorified stringer who handed over puff pieces and scandal bait to whichever editor paid fastest. He had a reputation for being on retainer with some very unpleasant men. Men who liked their headlines forgettable and their truths buried.
Satyu read the paragraph again.
“The deceased, a young female of approximate age 20, was discovered in a private guesthouse on the southern edge of Ballygunge. No foul play is suspected. Authorities believe it to be a case of overdose and depression.”
No name. No family. No details about where she worked. Just a quiet sweep under the rug.
He didn’t know why this one bothered him more than usual. He had seen these before - too many, in fact. But something about the location rang a bell. And something about the way the story was pushed out with such careful anonymity made his instincts itch. It reminded him of the girls he tried to protect all his life. The ones that no one cared for.
He leaned back, cracked his knuckles, and pulled out the beat-up Nokia from his drawer. He dialed a number from memory.
“Hello? Rishi?”
There was a pause on the other end. “Satyu-da? Er ... what’s up, dada? Long time.”
“I just read your latest piece. Ballygunge guesthouse. That girl with the overdose.”
“Yeah? Small thing, bro. Nothing big. You want the contact for the local officer?”
“Cut the crap, Rishi. Who fed you that story?”
Silence.
“Come on,” Satyu pressed. “That copy reads like it was dictated. Even your grammar’s better than that.”
“Just a source, dada. A small thing. Why are you stressing this? It happens all the time. Models come, models go. Sometimes they overdose.”
“She had earrings on, right? Expensive ones. And a handbag with initials?”
Another pause. Longer.
“You know who she was.”
“I don’t know anything, Satyu-da. I just print what I’m given.”
“Exactly,” Satyu said, voice colder now. “And that’s why you never made it beyond page three.”
He hung up.
Satyu could smell the stench of the Syndicate from a mile away. A model dies of an overdose with no fuss made on who she was or what really happened. A Quiet cover-up. Something was happening. He could smell it now, like petrol on wet concrete.
Satyu stood, grabbed his notebook and jacket, and headed for the archives.
It was time to find out who she really was.
And who wanted her forgotten.
20 August 2000
Satyabrata Roy’s pen hovered over the name he’d just scribbled down - Neelkamal Guesthouse, the address tucked in an obscure bylane between Ballygunge Place and Hazra Road. One of the clerks had whispered it to him over the phone, reluctant but nervous enough to let something slip.
“The CID swept it before the local station even logged it,” the man had said. “The body was taken out in an unmarked van. There was no postmortem done here.”
Satyu chewed the end of his pen.
No official postmortem? That wasn’t just sloppy - that was orchestration.
He flicked through the back pages of the Chronicle’s photo logbook. Any time a public incident happened, stringers or freelancers often snapped photos they didn’t end up using. Many just lay there, tagged and unclaimed. Buried evidence in plain sight.
And then - there.
A blurry timestamped image, taken outside Neelkamal Guesthouse two days ago. A girl wheeled out on a stretcher. Face obscured. Ankles visible.
They made sure the earrings and designer handbag were visible. Items that were too fancy for an anonymous model who overdosed. This was too clean for the story being sold.
He jotted down the time, date, and frame number. He’d need to check who took the photo. Maybe bribe the photo archivist for a higher-resolution copy.
He leaned back in his chair, sighing hard.
Every instinct told him this was it - a breadcrumb. Not a murder, not yet, but a narrative carefully constructed to look boring. And boring, he’d learned, was where the rot lived.
He turned to his notepad again and began listing his next steps:
Track the guesthouse manager. He would’ve been paid off. But not everyone stayed paid.
Identify the real girl. If the victim wasn’t named in the news, but had identifiers - then maybe she wasn’t the real target. Maybe she was a stand-in.
Find the missing name. Who was meant to die? And why hide her?
He’d been in this business long enough to know when a story had been sterilized - too few details, too smooth a narrative. It meant someone rich was hiding something rotten.
As he worked, someone dropped off a fresh sheaf of papers near his desk. Most were trash - press releases, food expo invites, municipal water updates.
But buried halfway down the stack was a pink flyer.
“Upcoming Charity Gala: Rekha Das Foundation – Supporting Urban Youth Wellness”
He stared at the name.
Rekha Das.
Of course. He’d heard whispers about her - patron saint of good publicity, queen of high society, with a teenage daughter who always showed up in tabloids but never in real stories. Wasn’t that girl Priya her PA?
He looked again at the timeline: Gala on the 3rd. Girl dead on the 14th. Ten days.
What the hell had happened in those ten days?
He flipped back through his notes. Scribbled one word in red ink:
Celina?
There’d been another whisper - a model gone missing just after the gala. Not confirmed, but murmured through the grapevine of makeup artists and stylists. A girl named Celina, last seen with a boutique team affiliated with one of Rekha’s events.
He underlined the name three times. He didn’t have proof yet. But he had a scent. And it was getting sharper. He picked up the phone again.
This time, he wasn’t calling journalists. He was calling every nurse, morgue worker, and low-level CID officer he still had dirt on.
If there was a cover-up, he’d dig through it. And if there was a girl the world had tried to forget, he’d find her name - and put it right back on page one. That dead girl deserved justice and Satyabrata Roy - the truth seeking king - would do his best to ensure that it happened.
21 August 2000
The light was fading as Satyabrata Roy sat on a rusting bench with a chipped teacup in one hand and a cheap biscuit in the other. The man across from him was built like a wrestler gone soft. Wide shoulders, swollen belly, bloodshot eyes. He looked like the kind of man who had once chased thieves but now mostly chased chai and samosas.
Sub-inspector Mritunjay Pal lit a beedi with shaking fingers.
“You didn’t get this from me,” he muttered.
“I never get anything from you,” Satyu said dryly, notebook open, pen ready.
Pal glanced around, then lowered his voice. “That girl ... the one in the guesthouse. It didn’t go through us.”
“Who picked up the body?”
“CID. A private van. No police escort.”
“No ID registered?”
“Nope. And when we tried to ask - higher-ups told us to back off. Said it was a ‘PR-sensitive matter’ and that the CID would handle it quietly.”
Satyu’s jaw tensed. “PR-sensitive. That’s a new one.”
Pal blew smoke. “They dropped off a body at SSKM for a few hours. But then it was gone. Transferred to a private morgue. No paperwork. No name. They didn’t even tag it properly.”
“Someone swapped the body.”
“I’m not saying that,” Pal said quickly. “But I’ve seen enough to know when someone’s pretending a death is normal.”
Satyu closed his notebook. “Who made the call?”
Pal looked away. “The number was from a burner. But one of the clerks swears the woman sounded educated. Said the body belonged to a model. That she wanted it handled quietly. Said she’d make a donation to the hospital if they helped.”
“A name?”
Pal hesitated. Then, softly: “They say it was someone from the Das Foundation. You know ... Rekha Das’s people.”
Satyu didn’t blink. “And you believe that?”
“I don’t disbelieve it,” Pal said. “I know when money talks.”
He stood up, brushing crumbs from his uniform. “You didn’t hear any of this from me.”
Satyu raised his cup in thanks.
The streets of Calcutta were humming in that low, lived-in way - the kind of buzz that covered secrets with the noise of rickshaws, steam, shouting vendors, and the cling-clang of temple bells. But Satyu walked like he was somewhere else.
Das Foundation.
Rekha Das.
He’d been following her name on society pages for years. Her “wellness empire.” Her charity events. Her daughter’s photo in magazines - always beautiful, never captioned with substance. And now?
There was a dead girl with no paperwork and no identity once again linked to her foundation. Along with a quiet offer of donation to hush it up.
He stopped near a paanwallah and scribbled into his notebook:
“If Celina = model who disappeared post gala
And overdose = staged cover
Then Rekha D = central figure”
He underlined it, once. Twice.
He needed more. But the moment was coming. He could feel it.
He walked faster.
22 August 2000
Back at his desk, the lights flickering with the late evening surge, Satyu pulled out a battered manila folder and started stapling clippings together. All the overdoses. All the anonymous bodies. All the names that were never named.
Then he pulled a file labeled simply:
“Rekha Das – Soft Targets”
Inside: glossy invites, photos of past galas, names of stylists, photographers, security guards. A web.
He needed more.
He picked up the phone and dialed a number he hadn’t used in years.
“Hello?”
“Trina. It’s Satyu.”
A pause. Then: “You digging again?”
“I need your help. I need to know who does background vetting for Rekha Das’s events. Her stylists. Her model scouts. Anyone hired or fired in the last six months.”
Trina sighed. “And if I say no?”
“Then someone’s daughter is going to die quietly and no one will ever ask why.”
Another pause. Then, softly: “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
He hung up.
Then circled one word on his notepad:
“Celina”
Below it, he wrote:
“If she’s dead - I’ll name her.
If she’s alive - I’ll find her.
Either way, someone’s going to pay.”
The newsroom had quieted. Half the staff had left for the day, the rest muttering into phones or staring at screens with bloodshot eyes. Outside, rain whispered against the windows, and in the corner, the electric kettle sputtered half-heartedly.
Satyabrata Roy sat unmoving at his desk, a photograph in front of him. Not one from an investigation. A clipping. Glossy. A candid snap from a magazine coverage of the Heritage FC Gala. The caption: “Anya Das arrives with her personal assistant.” In the background, barely in focus, was a woman with sharp eyes, dusky skin, and a stillness that stood out even in a glittering crowd.
Priya.
She had shown up in his periphery before. Always near Anya Das. Always just close enough to be seen but never to be questioned.
He tapped the edge of the photograph with his pen.
She didn’t dress like a PA. Didn’t walk like one either. Too self-assured. Too alert. When others posed, she scanned the room.
Undercover? A plant? A whistleblower?
Or something else?
If she was embedded in Rekha Das’s household - or in her daughter’s orbit - she might know things. Things about the girl in the guesthouse. About why every lead ended in silence.
But Priya didn’t trust him. That much he could tell. Even the few times they had crossed paths, she’d regarded him like a stray dog sniffing at too much truth.
He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
And just like that - memories of the other Priya in his life came roaring back like an unwelcome guest. The one he had married.
Four Years Earlier
She was laughter in heels, perfume in motion, all curves and ambition. A woman made of firelight and camera flashes. When they’d met at a book launch in College Street, she had tilted her head once, smirked - and just like that, Satyu was gone. Captivated. Doomed.
Priya was breathtaking - sharp-witted, dazzling in red, the kind of woman who made you walk straighter beside her, like your spine owed her something. She didn’t just enter rooms, she redefined them.
They married within months. Too fast, too fevered. Everyone warned him - said she was out of his league, said journalists didn’t marry women like her. But Satyu was a romantic. A fool. He believed - with the trembling conviction of a good man - that love was enough.
He brought her breakfast in bed. Left little poems taped to her mirror. Snuck yellow roses into her handbag when she went to work. Wrote articles late into the night while she scrolled catalogues of things they couldn’t afford.
He dreamt of changing the city - exposing corruption, cleaning the rot, printing truth.
She dreamt of leaving it - upgrading cities, upgrading homes, upgrading husbands.
He saved for a second-hand Nikon. She saved for a Gucci clutch.
He planned to fix the leaky sink. She planned to leave before monsoon.
He bought her cotton sarees in soft blues. She said she looked like a maid.
She wanted to be draped in satin. Shimmering. Worshipped. “I want to feel like a billboard,” she once said. “You want to feel like a pamphlet.”
And then one night - he came home early.
The front door was ajar. Unlocked. There were shoes at the entrance - men’s - expensive, unfamiliar.
From down the hall: laughter. Her laugh, unmistakable - syrupy, flirtatious. Followed by the rhythmic thud of a headboard against plaster.
He stepped inside like a man wading through a dream gone rancid.
The bedroom was lit. The sheets - satin, new - gleamed in amber light. Her body was arched, flushed, alive. Not in panic. Not in guilt. In supposed pleasure. Even through the haze of his pain - he could see that she was faking. Thinking back - perhaps that’s what she had done with him as well. She enjoyed his attention. Then when she got bored of it - she just moved on. She had faked her feelings for him throughout their relationship.
She didn’t flinch when she saw him. Didn’t even gasp.
Just smiled. Casually. Like he’d interrupted a dinner reservation.
“Oops,” she said, brushing her hair back with the air of a woman who’d misplaced a pen, not her vows. “Early deadline today?”
The man beside her - older, fatter, wearing a Rolex and nothing else - snorted. Lit a cigarette. Didn’t even bother covering himself.
Satyu couldn’t move. His throat was dry, heart thudding loud enough to crack ribs.
“Don’t look so shocked,” Priya said, rising from the bed like a queen unbothered by scandal. Her nakedness wasn’t ashamed - it was weaponized.
“You didn’t really think this would last, did you?” she asked, gathering her blouse like it was part of some performance. “You can’t even buy a decent fan.”
She pointed at the old ceiling fan above - rattling, half-broken - and laughed. A full-throated, wicked laugh. Like this was all a joke she’d been saving for the punchline.
Her lover chuckled too. Flicked ash into Satyu’s wastebasket.
“You’re good at chasing ghosts, Satyabrata,” she added, stepping into her heels without shame. “Maybe go chase your next scoop. Because this?” She gestured to herself, to her curves, her conquest, the shattered illusion of their home. “You were never man enough for this.”
He stood there, stunned. No scream came. No rage. Just the hot, silent collapse of everything he thought he’d built.
She left that night.
She didn’t pack.
She didn’t look back.
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