Yantra Protocol
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
29: Under God's Sky
Mythology Sex Story: 29: Under God's Sky - 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
30 August 2000
The world was hushed, wrapped in the soft blue haze of early dawn. Delhi stirred faintly beyond the balcony - a few distant honks, the flapping of pigeons, the rustle of the breeze against embroidered curtains.
Inside, the suite was dim and golden, lit only by the first light spilling across tangled sheets and exhausted bodies.
Celina and Anya lay curled against each other on the massive bed, limbs entwined like lovers in an old painting. Anya’s fingers idly combed through Celina’s dark curls, her eyes fixed out the window, but unseeing - lost in thought, her brows drawn tight in sleep-heavy stillness. Celina’s breathing was slow, peaceful, as she nuzzled unconsciously into Anya’s chest.
Bharath stirred.
He blinked once, then again, adjusting to the softness around him.
But Kim wasn’t there.
He sat up, slowly, quietly.
She stood at the far end of the suite - at the balcony door, robe cinched at her waist, hair still damp from their night shower, silhouetted by the gray light creeping into the city.
She didn’t speak when he approached.
He didn’t need her to.
He wrapped his arms around her from behind - gently, carefully - and pressed his chest to her back. She sighed, immediately leaning into him like a key slotting into a lock.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he murmured, his lips brushing her temple.
Kim nodded, then shook her head, then just ... breathed.
“DDay,” she whispered. “They’ll see me today. With all of you in tow.”
Bharath pressed a soft kiss to the edge of her jaw. “They’ll see you. That’s all they need to see.”
Her hands came up to grip his forearms where they crossed over her waist.
“I’m scared.”
He kissed her again. Slower this time, below her ear. “I know.”
“I don’t know what I’ll say if they ask. If they suspect. Or if they don’t recognize me at all.”
Another kiss, to her shoulder now. “Then don’t say anything.”
She turned slightly in his arms, her cheek brushing against his.
“We’ll take it as it comes,” he said, voice low and warm. “We’ll be your friends in the beginning. Your people. Nothing more.”
Kim’s voice cracked. “And if the time comes?”
Bharath tightened his hold. “You’ll know when it’s right. If you want to let them in - let them see us - that’s your choice.”
Her breath hitched.
Then came the tears - silent, hot, relentless. She turned fully and buried her face in his chest. He held her as her shoulders shook, whispering nothing and everything into her hair, his lips never far from her skin.
Across the room, Celina stirred, her hand reaching for Anya’s instinctively. Anya squeezed it, still staring into the light.
None of them spoke.
But in that early morning hush, four hearts beat as one - bound not just by desire, but by choice. By trust.
And by the knowledge that no matter what the day brought...
They’d walk into it together.
The airport buzzed around them, indifferent and electric, as all four stepped into the terminal.
Celina, no longer in disguise, radiated the kind of effortless beauty that made heads swivel and aunties clutch their sons. Kim wore a soft blue salwar, ironed to perfection but clinging faintly from her nervous sweat. Anya, in dark sunglasses and a minimal ivory sari, held Bharath’s hand like a natural extension of herself.
The murmurs began before they even reached security.
“Are they models?”
“No, no - film stars. South ki lagti hai ek toh.”
“That guy with them? He looks familiar - sportsman, maybe?”
It never got old - watching how the world bent slightly when all three of them walked into a space together. They weren’t hiding anymore. They weren’t rushing. And for once, Bharath wasn’t checking over his shoulder every three minutes.
He smiled, only for it to twist into a grimace.
He clenched his fist in his lap during boarding.
The Syndicate still moved in shadows while we walked in sunlight. How many girls would never get this freedom? How many Priyas? How many Celinas?
He felt his blood burn. “We’ll bring them down,” he promised himself again. “Whatever it takes.”
He wished Priya and Devi were here. They would’ve grumbled and scolded about how yesterday had gone - he then sobered a little thinking about how much Priya and Devi would have teased him about the photo session and the teenagers and aunties hitting on him. Still, they should’ve been here. Laughing, eating, watching Kim step into this chapter of her life.
Another trip, he thought, sighing. A quieter one. When things are simpler.
If they ever got simpler.
Kim didn’t blink during takeoff.
She didn’t sip juice. Didn’t read the magazine. Didn’t notice Celina teasing the steward for extra paper napkins or Anya blowing on Bharath’s ear when he tried to nap.
She just ... stared.
At the seat in front of her.
Unblinking. Silent. Frozen.
They didn’t push her. Just held her hands quietly - Anya from the left, Bharath from the right - and let her be still in their warmth. In solidarity.
She stayed like that the entire flight.
The drive was short, bumpy, and sun-drenched.
The mohalla appeared like a sunlit film set coming to life - narrow lanes, stacked rooftops, vibrant dupattas drying in every window. The air was thick with turmeric, ghee, marigolds, and the clatter of wedding prep.
As soon as the taxi rolled to a stop outside a whitewashed gate, it began.
There was literally an explosion of joy when Kim stepped out.
People surged forward. Aunties screamed. Chachis cried. Kids shrieked, “Kimmy didi! Kimmy didi!” Even a langar volunteer waved a paratha in the air like a flag. And in the center of it all, Kim stood frozen, half out of the car, looking like she was being marched to a firing squad. Her mother - vibrant, tearful, clinking with bangles - swooped in and engulfed her in a hug so tight Kim squeaked.
“O meri gudiya! Look at you! What skin, what hair! Top class! Aaj kal ki fashion magazines mein aayi hogi tu, haan?” (You look like you must be in a fashion magazine)
Kim smiled weakly. Her eyes brimmed.
Then came the turn.
Dozens of eyes swung toward us.
Celina stood tall, Anya casually elegant, Bharath smiling like a batsman on a cricket pitch with no helmet facing a towering fast bowler.
Kim tensed - looking like a deer in headlights.
Anya, of course, saved the moment.
She stepped forward, slipped her hand into Bharath’s, and said with all the practiced charm of a socialite princess:
“Namaste Aunty! We are Kim’s best friends in Calcutta. This is my husband - Bharath. We’re married. And this is our dear friend, Celina. She’s travelled with us to celebrate with Kim.”
Gasps.
Then applause.
Like they’d just personally brought the World Cup back from Lords.
Suddenly, aunties were pressing laddoos into Bharath’s hands, uncles patting his back like he’d slain a tiger, and boys muttering “Sala kya naseeb hai is bande ka... (What a lucky SOB)”
Kim stood to the side, still watching. Her eyes landed on Bharath and Anya - hand in hand, smiling in sync - and a small shadow flickered across her face.
But she exhaled slowly. Gave a slight, sad smile. She understood. This was necessary. And in that moment, Bharath caught her gaze. He gave the tiniest nod.
We’re with you. As you need. No pressure. No spotlight. Her smile trembled - then steadied. She was back home.
The food was legendary.
Weddings in Punjab didn’t serve food - they waged delicious, aggressive war with it.
Parathas the size of dinner plates. Dahi thick as cream. Paneer in six styles. Pickles that could make grown men cry. Aloo sabzi that caused people to close their eyes and moan with reverence. And Kim’s mother was leading the charge.
“One more parantha for the friends ji! No? Then just half more. Don’t insult me.”
Bharath had to physically cover his plate with both hands, shaking his head furiously. “Please, aunty, I swear - another bite and I’ll need a second stomach.”
Celina was blissed out beside him, spooning mango pickle over her dal. “Why did my mother ever leave Punjab? (Haryana and Punjab were one state a while ago)”
Anya, popping the last bite of gulab jamun into her mouth, said, “I have no idea. I may never leave again.”
Kim, watching from across the courtyard, finally let herself smile. A real one. Quiet. Touched.
Her people. All her people. In her home.
The sun had mellowed, casting honeyed light over the courtyard. Laddoos were wrapped, guests slowly drifted out, and the noise of utensils faded into a lull of contented digestion.
Kim sat cross-legged on a charpai under the neem tree, her robe loose, her hair wild and long - drying in loose curls across her shoulders like vines too stubborn to be tamed.
Her mother stood behind her, brush in hand, alternately muttering and marveling as she tugged gently through the mess.
“Hayeee, Kimmy,” she sighed. “This jungle? What do they feed you in that Calcutta hostel? This hair has gone wild!”
Kim smirked, eyes closed, letting the brush glide through.
“They don’t feed me enough, so the hair grows in rebellion.”
Her mother snorted, then leaned down and kissed the crown of her head - a soft, sudden thing that made Kim’s heart jolt.
“You’re still my pagli, no matter how many cities you go to.”
Kim opened her eyes, just in time to see her mother glance toward the house.
“And those friends of yours - hayeee! That Celina and Anya - what a beauties! They look better than all the heroines nowadays. And the South Indian one - the serious-looking one - your gabru jawaan! Bilkul heera hai, Kimmy.”
Kim couldn’t help it. She grinned.
Gabru.
Her mother’s pet name for her dream son-in-law. She’d used it since Kim was a child, muttering it into the TV during old Punjabi serials. “Aisa gabru mile toh shaadi karva doon turant.” (If I find a man like him I will marry him immediately to Kim)
She leaned back into her mother’s lap. “He is kind of amazing isn’t he?”
“Haan haan,” her mother scoffed, tugging another knot. “And I don’t keep pickles under the bed. I saw the way he held your hand. And that smile? That’s not a friend, bibi. That’s a husband type.”
Kim laughed, letting her mother oil the edges of her scalp as she stared at the neem leaves above.
This was her home. This was her world.
And she’d missed it with a hunger she hadn’t even known she carried.
Her mother talked on - about wedding prep, about how Sweety’s lehenga was too tight because of her secret pani puri binges, and how Manjeet was a rogue but at least he had a job in Canada now. Kim cackled when she heard “those two got caught in the rice field, na - foolish girl didn’t count the cycle tyre marks.”
“You missed everything,” her mother sighed.
“I really did.”
A shadow passed.
Her father walked over from the verandah, wiping his hands on a gamchha, his face bright as the sun.
“Kimmy,” he said, that familiar note of wonder in his voice - like he still couldn’t believe she was really here.
She stood, and he pulled her into a hug, one arm around her shoulders, the other holding the back of her head just like he used to when she was ten. She smelled mustard oil and home on his kurta.
“You’re glowing,” he said, pulling back. “You’ve grown up so beautifully. Look at you. You look so beautiful!”
Her throat thickened. “I missed you, Papa.”
He kissed her temple. “I know, puttar (child). We missed you too.”
She sat down again, heart full, her mother now twisting her hair into a loose braid.
And for the first time in many, many months - Kim didn’t regret coming back.
“Kimmy,” her mother said suddenly, too casually.
“Hm?”
“Enough of Calcutta now.”
Kim blinked.
Her mother continued, as though she were talking about picking papayas.
“Time to settle down in life, beta. We’ve done all the asking around. We want you to talk to a boy. Sunil is a very good boy. Four acres of his own. And very modern thinking.”
The words fell like stones.
Kim sat up. “What?”
Her mother smiled. “He doesn’t mind his wife finishing her degree. He said so himself. You’ll be able to study, do seva, everything. He even has a scooter.”
Kim’s voice was flat. “You want me to marry Sunil?”
Her mother beamed. “Yes. Good family. He saw your photo and said yes immediately. He said you’re more beautiful than the film girls.”
Kim’s heart began to race.
“Maa -”
“We’ve spoken to Pandit-ji,” her father added, stepping in like this was a group project. “He says dates are very good after Dussehra. You could settle here. No more hostel food, no more stress. Just peace.”
Kim turned to her mother, eyes wide.
“This is why you wanted me to come home?”
Her mother’s smile faltered. “Kimmy, beta, this is for the best. You can’t stay there forever. What is even in Calcutta for you now? How long will you live away from us?”
Kim opened her mouth - then shut it.
Because how could she explain it?
How could she say, “I’ve found love in places you’d never understand. I’ve been remade in rooms you’ll never see. I’ve tasted freedom, not just food, and I’m not ready to give it up.”
How could she explain Bharath?
Or Anya and Celina?
How could she even begin?
The moment cracked like glass.
The warmth of the day shattered - just a little - and something tight and sad slipped into her chest.
She looked away, her braid half-done, her hands clenched in her lap.
Her mother kept talking.
Her father nodded.
“No pressure puttar. We are not forcing anything. If you and Sunil like each other we will move things forward. But I think you will get along well together.”
But Kim?
Kim wasn’t listening anymore.
The fan spun slowly above, humming against the heavy silence.
Kim lay on the thin mattress with the familiar floral bedsheet beneath her - unchanged since she was sixteen. The wooden cupboard still bore the sticker she’d once peeled from a chocolate bar. Her old books still lined the shelf, a yellowing certificate of merit tucked into the corner of the frame.
And yet ... she couldn’t sleep.
Her body was exhausted, but her mind buzzed like a wasp trapped in a jar.
Sunil. Four acres. “Very modern thinking.”
Her mother’s voice echoed again. “What’s even in Calcutta for you now?”
Her chest ached. Her arms felt too empty. She bit back a sob.
But then - faintly - she felt it.
The tug.
Not of the past. Not of fear.
But of dreamland.
Of them.
She closed her eyes, willing her mind to still. Let the pulse slow. Let the ache become invitation.
She needed them now.
More than ever.
It was different tonight.
No golden light. No rolling fields. No teasing hands or perfumed baths or whispered fantasies.
Tonight, the dream world was quiet. Still. Blue-hued and vast like a lake at twilight.
Bharath stood barefoot in the grass.
Anya sat beside him, arms folded across her stomach, eyes heavy.
Celina leaned against a tree, her fingers twisted around themselves, lips pursed as if holding back tears.
They saw her. And said nothing.
Not a word.
Just opened their arms.
And Kim broke.
She ran to them and burst into tears, collapsing against Anya’s lap, burying her face into the warmth of her sisters as her body shook with ragged, raw sobs.
They surrounded her, silent and solid, arms curling around her like ivy around stone.
Kim sobbed until her voice cracked.
Then she ranted. Words tumbling out between hiccups and gasps.
“How do I choose? How do I walk away from people who love me? My mother brushing my hair ... my father hugging me like I was still five years old. The neighbours feeding me sweets. Girls I grew up with pulling me aside to gossip. This is my world. If I tell them about us I will lose them forever!”
Anya brushed her hair back gently. Celina stroked her wrist.
Kim went on.
“They make it sound so easy. Sunil is a good boy. It’s time. Time to settle down.”
She choked.
“And all I could think was - they don’t know me. They love someone I used to be. Not ... not who I am now. They will never force me to get married to him - but I know that they will be very hurt if I reject him - for you.”
She looked at them, eyes brimming again. “And yet, I don’t want to hurt them. I don’t want to disappoint them. But I don’t want to leave you either. I can’t.”
Her voice cracked on that last word.
She collapsed again - into Bharath’s chest this time.
He caught her. Held her.
Tight.
One hand in her hair. The other on her back.
He said nothing for a long time - only let her breathe against the steady rhythm of his heart.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Anya and Celina enveloped them both, a protective triangle of warmth and wordless solidarity.
They stayed like that for what felt like eternity.
Then Bharath whispered into her hair.
“We’re here for you. No matter what.”
He kissed her head.
“We want you to be happy, Kim. Truly. I love you. We love you. But, if this is where you believe you belong ... if this is your home - then so be it.”
Anya pressed a kiss to her cheek. “You’ll always be ours. Our soul. Our light.”
Celina took Kim’s hand and kissed each knuckle. “You’ve changed us forever. That won’t go away. But you ... you deserve a life that feels whole.”
Kim whimpered - then sobbed.
Hysterical now. As if their love made it worse because it was so selfless.
Because it was real.
They held her through it - rocking, stroking, kissing her brow, whispering comfort.
Eventually, her sobs softened.
Her breathing evened.
Her eyelids fluttered.
Kim fell asleep in the dream - cradled in their arms.
31 August 2000
She awoke with a start: her face was damp; the pillow soaked; her arms felt empty; the room still.
The birds chirped outside. A moped revved in the lane below. Morning tea was being stirred in the kitchen.
But inside her chest, a yawning emptiness lingered.
A yearning unsatisfied.
The dream hadn’t relieved her.
It had made her need them even more.
The day began not with sunlight, but with lassi.
Towering steel tumblers of it - thick, frothy, and sweet enough to turn blood into syrup - pressed into their hands before they were even properly awake.
“Nahi nahi, beta! Ek aur!” (No no child! One more!)
“Par aunty, bas - “ (But aunty, enough -!)
“This is Amritsar. We don’t do ‘bas’ here. We do parathas with butter from our own cow, and real lassi. You South Indians eat air, that’s why you’re so thin.”
Bharath tried to protest.
Celina winked and whispered, “Bharath, drink it. Or we’ll be fed intravenously.”
Anya, meanwhile, sat on a charpai surrounded by boys pretending to wash scooters just to get a glimpse of her smiling. Every time she adjusted her dupatta or tilted her head, it triggered chain reactions of shy giggles and elbow jabs.
“Look at that one!” she whispered to Celina. “He dropped his wrench when I blinked.”
Celina waved at him sweetly. The poor boy nearly walked into a wall.
Behind them, uncles in starched kurta-pajamas smoked hookah and whispered in reverent tones.
“Must be film stars.”
“That girl in red? Eyes like Zeenat Aman.”
“And that boy - have you seen shoulders like that since Dharmendra in Phool Aur Patthar?”
“Kim baby’s become high society, yaar. Friends like these, haan.”
Kim sat still, her hands splayed on a velvet cushion, as an elderly mehendi artist painted intricate vines and paisleys up her arms.
Next to her, Sweety squealed, holding out her own freshly adorned palms.
“Match karenge, Kimmy!” she shrieked. “Bride and bride’s cousin, same same! Manjeet will faint when he sees this. Bas bechain ho jayega poora shaadi mein.” (He will not be able to rest seeing this throughout the wedding)
Kim laughed - real and warm - her heart overflowing with the love blanketing her like a hundred soft shawls. Girls brought her sweets, her old math teacher came to bless her, and an army of aunties offered unsolicited beauty advice.
“Put some haldi on her cheeks, see the glow come!”
“You haven’t gained a kilo, beta, but you’ve become so fine.”
“Where did you get that dress? Delhi, na?”
And yet ... beneath the joy, Kim kept stealing glances toward the gate. The path. The terrace. Hoping to catch a glimpse of Bharath and the girls.
Meanwhile – across Amritsar, the trio didn’t waste the day.
Their hosts, after intense verbal skirmishes over who got the honor of accompanying Kimmy’s fancy friends, whisked them away with the fervor usually reserved for religious relics or international cricket players.
They were first taken to Sri Harmandir Sahib - the Golden Temple - where Celina and Anya wrapped their dupattas with reverence and insisted on seva, joining the line to wash dishes with local women who instantly recognized them.
“I saw you in Femina,” one said breathlessly to Anya.
Celina signed her napkin.
Bharath just took pictures - dozens of them - delighted by the pure, innocent awe in people’s eyes as they gazed at his goddesses with wonder.
He was equally awed.
Next came Brother Dhaba, where a single Amritsari kulcha stuffed with paneer, coriander, and masala - served with spicy chole and a slab of butter thick as a brick - left them all in stunned silence.
“Is this legal?” Celina whispered, eyes wide.
“I might cry,” Anya said.
“Please don’t,” Bharath muttered. “We’ll be served five more if anyone thinks we’re sad.”