Yantra Protocol
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
30: Lord 311 and His Goddesses
Mythology Sex Story: 30: Lord 311 and His Goddesses - 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
No one remembered how they got him off the ground. No one remembered how they stumbled through the narrow lanes, feet slipping on gravel, clutching Bharath’s limp, bloodied body between them.
“Hold his head up. Anya, his head - “ Kim gasped, arms trembling as she hooked her shoulder under his.
“I’ve got it, I’ve got it - “ Anya’s voice cracked. Blood was soaking her kurta, but she didn’t care. She clutched his jaw in one hand, pressing her forehead to his temple for a heartbeat. “Stay with us, jaan ... please.”
No one remembered how their clothes got torn or how Anya’s dupatta ended up tied tight around Bharath’s midsection to stop the bleeding. Celina had been the one to knot it, hands shaking so hard she’d nearly fumbled.
No one remembered how Celina, still sobbing, had lifted him alone for a full thirty seconds when his legs collapsed beneath them all. “Come on, baby ... you’re not allowed to fall, not like this, not on me. I need you,” she whispered, voice breaking into a guttural sound that didn’t sound like her at all.
They just moved like possessed women. Like sisters of the dead. Like women carrying their own funeral pyre through the street to the main road.
“Rickshaw! Oye - stop! STOP! STOP! STOP!” Kim screamed, her voice hoarse from crying.
A startled rickshaw driver skidded to a halt, eyes going wide at the sight of them - three women, blood-smeared and wild-eyed, dragging a half-conscious man whose feet dragged limply in the dust.
“Bhaiya, take us to the hospital! Now! Please!” Anya begged, already trying to shove Bharath into the back seat.
The driver hesitated. “Madam ... he needs -”
Celina lunged at him, grabbing his shirt collar with one bloodied hand. “If you waste one more second talking, I swear to God I’ll drive this thing myself! Please bhaiya! Help us!”
That got him moving. He scrambled to start the engine, muttering a prayer under his breath as they heaved Bharath into the seat. Kim climbed in beside him, cradling his head in her lap, trying to put pressure on his biggest wounds.
“Bharath, jaanu, listen to me - don’t close your eyes,” Kim said fiercely, voice shaking. “Look at me, jaan, look at me. Just once”. Her words tangled with the sound of her own breath hitching, too fast, too loud, “Why isn’t he talking, Anya?”. His eyelids fluttered, a faint groan escaping his swollen lips.
Anya held his hand like a lifeline. “That’s it. You’re with us. Just a little more. Don’t worry shona. We will make sure everything is okay”
The rickshaw tore down the road, engine whining and belching diesel into the hot air, the stench of exhaust mixing with the sharp iron tang of Bharath’s blood. Horns blared, someone cursed as they swerved too close, but the three women bent over him like human shields, whispering prayers, curses, and pleas into his blood-matted hair.
The bell above the tin door jangled loudly as they burst into the local hospital, Bharath slung between them, his head rolling loosely. The antiseptic hit them first, sharp and chemical after the dust and sweat of the street, the fluorescent lights glaring down on the blood smeared across their arms.
“Doctor! Doctor, please!” Celina shouted.
Dr. Sharma - a wiry man in his sixties, spectacles perpetually sliding down his nose - dropped his newspaper and rushed from behind the curtain.
“Hey Ram! Yeh kya hua?! (Oh my God! What happened?) What on earth -?”
“Please, help him! He’s losing so much blood - “ Anya’s voice cracked. “He can’t - he can’t breathe properly -”
“On the stretcher, quickly!” Sharma barked, snapping into motion.
They lowered Bharath onto the stretcher, all three of them still clutching some part of him as if letting go would mean losing him forever.
The women couldn’t speak. Celina clutched Bharath’s wrist. Anya stared at the floor. Kim ... just wept, hands open, blood on her palms like a crime scene.
The doctor peeled back Bharath’s kurta and hissed.
“This ... was a bus accident, haan?” he asked, his voice too calm to be unaware.
A question laced with mercy.
Kim nodded numbly.
Dr. Sharma muttered curses under his breath. “They crushed his rib cage ... two fingers are broken ... God above, look at his jaw.”
They patched him. As best they could with IV drips, temporary splints. The doctor exhausted almost all his stock of gauze. Celina held his hand the whole time. Kim kept whispering his name like a prayer. Anya stood in the corner, knees shaking, whispering “breathe, baby, just breathe.”
The doctor looked at the three of them and finally said, “This isn’t enough. He needs surgery. You have to get him to a proper hospital. He will die by tonight if he is not operated on immediately.”
The doctor’s words seemed to hang in the air like a death sentence.
Celina’s head snapped up. “Where’s the nearest hospital that can do it?”
“Guru Nanak Medical Hospital. But it’s twelve kilometers away. We need an ambulance immediately,” Dr. Sharma said, already wrapping fresh gauze over Bharath’s ribs. “But the roads -”
“We’ll make it,” Anya cut him off. Her voice was steel over breaking glass. “Tell me what to do.”
“Keep his head elevated. Don’t let him lose consciousness.”
Kim was already moving. “Help me lift him - no, wait - Celina, take his right side. Anya, you hold the drip.”
They slid their arms beneath him again. Bharath’s head lolled, a faint moan slipping past his swollen jaw.
“Shhh ... we’re here, jaanu. We’re here,” Kim whispered, brushing blood-matted hair from his eyes. “Don’t talk. Save your strength.”
Anya’s voice shook. “We’re going to the big hospital now, shona. They’ll fix you. Just stay with us. Stay with me.”
Celina’s grip on him tightened. “Don’t you dare check out now, baby. Not like this. Not before we -” Her voice broke, and she bit the rest back.
They stumbled out into the blinding afternoon sun, the heat pressing down like a hand. The rickshaw driver was still waiting, engine idling, eyes wide with worry.
“Bhaiya, Guru Nanak Medical Hospital!” Anya barked.
He nodded once, climbing down to help them lift Bharath into the back again. The IV bag dangled from Anya’s raised arm as she wedged herself beside him, his head cradled in her lap this time. Celina climbed in on the other side, bracing his torso with her arms. Kim slid in last, holding his hand like she could anchor him to the world.
The rickshaw jolted forward, engine straining.
“Careful!” Kim shouted, panic flaring when Bharath’s head rolled.
“I’m going as fast as I can, madam!” the driver yelled back, sweat already darkening his shirt.
The rickshaw wove through traffic like a needle through cloth, horns blaring, curses shouted.
At one point, a man on a scooter yelled, “Arre, what’s going on?”
Celina shot him a look that could’ve killed. “Move!”
When the gates of the hospital finally came into view, Anya’s knees nearly buckled with relief. “We’re here. Shona, we’re here.”
The driver skidded to a stop. Orderlies were already rushing toward them, shouting for a stretcher.
Kim brushed a tear from her cheek with her bloodstained wrist. “Don’t let go of me, jaanu. We’re not letting go of you.”
And as the nurses wheeled him inside, the three women stayed on either side, refusing to be separated, their hands never leaving him—because letting go felt like death.
The rickshaw screeched to a stop in front of the hospital.
“Help! Please - someone help!” Anya’s voice was already breaking.
Two attendants ran to meet them. They lifted Bharath out of the seat, his head lolling against Kim’s shoulder, blood still dripping from his temple.
“He’s - he’s not -” Celina’s throat closed around the rest of the sentence.
“Move madam. We will take him inside!” one of the attendants barked.
They burst through the sliding doors. Harsh white light flooded over them. A nurse looked up, froze, then gagged into her mask. Another yelled, “Doctor! We have a Code Yellow! We need you here now!”
The women stayed beside him as the ICU team cut away the blood-stiffened dupatta from his ribs, replaced it with thick gauze, and slid an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose.
“Stay with me, jaanu,” Kim whispered, fingers brushing damp hair from his forehead.
“Keep talking to him,” a nurse urged. “Don’t let him drift.”
Anya gripped his hand so tight her own fingers went numb. “Shona, it’s me. We’re here. We’re not going anywhere.”
Celina’s hands were wrapped around his ankle, head bowed. “Baby, I swear to God, you’re not leaving me here.”
Bharath’s open eye blinked, slow and heavy. He tried to breathe deep, but the sound caught in his chest - half a gasp, half a groan. His lips moved behind the mask.
“Ki-m ... Ki-” The name was hoarse, strained, like glass dragged over stone.
The croak of it was almost comical. A breathless frog. A muffled gargoyle. But to them?
It was the greatest sound they’d ever heard.
Celina gasped - loud and sudden. Anya let out a sob and threw herself forward, kissing his wrist over and over. Kim froze for a half-second - then let herself fall, her forehead pressed against his shoulder, her tears wetting the fabric of his hospital gown.
Kim bent over him, tears spilling freely. “I’m here jaanu. I’m right here.”
His gaze moved—painfully—toward Celina. Then toward Anya. His mouth twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile.
The oxygen hissed. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts.
“Bharath - “ Anya’s voice cracked. “What is it, jaan?”
He swallowed, coughed, winced hard. His jaw trembled as he fought to form the next words. Every breath was a battle.
“Drea ... m,” he rasped.
“Yes,” Anya said instantly, nodding as if it could keep him alive. “Yes, you’re in it. You’re in our dream. You’re here.”
His fingers twitched around hers. His brow furrowed. The muscles in his neck strained as he drew in another painful breath.
The monitor beeped. Kim’s nails dug into the bedrail. “Don’t speak if it hurts -”
He shook his head - just a fraction. His lips shaped the next word slowly, like pushing a boulder uphill.
“Kim...”
The machines clicked. Beeped. Hissed.
The fluorescent lights hummed above, indifferent to suffering, illuminating the pale cast of Bharath’s skin, the deep purples of his bruises, the angry swell of gauze across his ribs and temple.
And then, one more time.
A nurse called for more gauze. Somewhere behind them, a monitor alarm chirped, sharp and insistent, before someone silenced it.
Bharath’s chest rose, trembled, and he fought for one more breath. “You ... Worth...” The syllable cracked in half. His eyes locked on hers, dark and burning despite the haze. “ ... it.”
Celina let out a broken sob. Anya pressed her forehead to his hand, kissing the skin again and again. Kim leaned in until her lips brushed the edge of his mask.
His eye closed at last, but not before the corner of his mouth lifted just enough to let them know - he meant every word.
They would whisper about those nights for years.
Not just the staff - but ward boys, visiting relatives, interns, and the chai vendor outside who sold 37 extra cups of tea per night to people just trying to catch a glimpse.
By the third night, the chai vendor had started a running commentary for the crowd outside:
“And here we see Goddess Number One bringing tea to her man - oh ho, Goddess Number Two is adjusting the blanket - Goddess Number Three is ... smiling at me? No? Okay, moving on.”
He even began selling “Room 311 Special” tea - ten rupees more, half the sugar, and a promise that drinking it would “bring divine darshan” if you stood at the ICU door long enough.
Inside, the rumour mill spun like a ceiling fan on speed.
“He’s a maharaja,” one ward boy swore.
“No, no,” said another, “They’re shooting for Filmfare magazine. My cousin’s best friend’s uncle is the assistant photographer.”
By morning, someone had added, “He’s in witness protection. Those are his bodyguards.”
Three women.
No - three goddesses.
Sentinels in salwars and shawls, stationed like holy sculptures at the head of a broken man’s bed. They didn’t leave. They didn’t blink. They didn’t need to.
A young boy, on his way to see his father who had gallbladder-surgery, stopped mid-corridor, palms together in a namaste. “Devi, may I take ashirwad?” he asked. Kim blinked. “We’re ... not saints.” The boy ignored her, touched Celina’s feet, and shuffled off in bliss.
The ICU nurse fainted.
Not because of blood. Not even because of a vitals emergency.
Because she walked into Room 311 and saw three movie-poster-caliber women seated around a bleeding demigod, tending to him like Florence Nightingale had tripled herself and gained covergirl contracts.
Kim sat holding his hand with both of hers, whispering.
Anya had her palm on his chest like she was doing tantric CPR.
Celina was gently dabbing blood from his eyebrow with a gaze that could melt walls.
Nurse Harpreet had stepped in with a tray of cotton and promptly collided with the wall, whispering:
“Hai rabba ... what is this? A film shoot?”
Night 1/Day 2 - 2 September 2000
The attending physician - Dr. Kapoor - shook his head after reading the x-rays again.
“I don’t like to be the bearer of bad news ... but this is not looking good madam. We have saved him but he will be paralysed for life. He has six fractures including a cracked jaw. His head trauma is severe. He has had a concussion not to mention rib trauma, severe fluid loss. If he survives, I’ll write a paper.”
The ward boy behind him muttered, “Sir, I’ll write a poem.” Dr. Kapoor didn’t even blink.
Celina sat on the bed feeding Bharath rice gruel from a small steel bowl, speaking soft Malayalam lullabies under her breath. The security guard on duty leaned so far through the doorframe to watch that his belt buckle scraped the paint.
Anya adjusted his pillow with a military nurse’s precision, murmuring in Tamil to calm his breathing. One of the interns swore she saw his vitals improve in real time, muttering into her clipboard.
Kim was brushing his hair gently with her fingers, speaking softly into his ear in Punjabi like he was a boy who had scraped his knee, not a man who had nearly died. The cleaner passing by slowed to a crawl, broom hovering mid-air like she’d just seen Amitabh Bachchan wink at her.
Dr. Kapoor sighed.
“Romantics. They’ll break down by morning.”
They just collapsed together on a metal bench in the waiting area, curled around each other like ivy vines, shawls tangled, cheek on shoulder on lap. The chai vendor came in and tried to sell them tea in their sleep, whispering, “Special 311 blend ... only five rupees...” before being chased out by the matron.
When they woke up? Everyone gasped when they saw the radiant women. Their skin was glowing, their hair shining - as if they’d just returned from a luxury Himalayan retreat. They didn’t look like they had woken up from the uncomfortable benches installed outside the ICU rooms that would break even the most hardened criminals. The gallbladder patient in 309 clutched his rosary and whispered to his wife, “I saw Devi-maa this morning. Not just one - but three! And I am not even drunk.”
Even the head nurse whispered, “Pehle toh aisi glow log honeymoon ke baad le aate the.” (I’ve only seen people look like this after their honeymoon!) The orderly beside her nodded solemnly. “Ya ... or after applying Vicco Ayurvedic Turmeric cream.”
By morning, the transformation was complete. Yesterday they’d been grief-stricken, blood-smeared warriors dragging a broken man through the streets.
Today? They walked into the ICU like a slow-motion shampoo commercial.
The entire hospital turned to stare. Orderlies forgot which patient they were wheeling. One man pushed an empty gurney for three corridors before realising. A physiotherapist drove his patient’s wheelchair into a wall.
Even Dr. Kapoor stopped mid-stride, blinking at the sight of them. “Oh... oh no. They’re even prettier clean. Productivity in the hospital is dropping alarmingly. That nurses are more worried about talking about the girls and comparing them to heroines. And that boy is out of danger. In just one night!”
A junior intern elbowed him. “Sir, is this ... is this allowed in medicine?”
“No,” Kapoor muttered. “And for the record, it’s not fair either.”
Night 2/Day 3 - 3 September 2000
Dr. Kapoor returned.
Not with a diagnosis. With a notebook.
“I’d like to ... observe him,” he muttered.
Celina raised an eyebrow. “You mean Bharath?”
“I mean the case. A man with fractured ribs should be on morphine and screaming. He’s ... smiling.”
Anya smirked. “We bathed him this morning.”
He blinked. “You ... what?”
“We do everything for him,” Kim said simply.
From the corner, the cleaner let out a sharp gasp, dropped her mop, and muttered something about “love being the real medicine.”
Dr. Kapoor looked down at his chart.
Then at the impossibly clean floor around the bed.
Then at the fresh marigolds someone had placed on the window ledge.
He left without saying another word - but not before scribbling “Possibly a tantric healing cult?” in the margin of his notes.
The office boy entered with billing paperwork.
He returned four times that day.
By the third visit, he wasn’t even pretending to carry paper anymore.
“Bas ... madam sign karna reh gaya tha. Waise, aap log kaha se aaye ho? Calcutta? Modelling karte ho kya?” (Madam you have to sign here. By the way, where are you from? Calcutta? Are you a model?)
Celina signed with a wink.
The boy fell into the gurney and forgot his name for seven minutes. When he finally remembered it, he mispronounced it.
Two uncles recovering from surgery got into a heated argument outside Room 311 about who saw “Miss White Saree” first.
“First I saw her shadow in the corridor!”
“No! That was me! You saw my reflection in the glass!”
The debate escalated to the point where one of them tried to sneak into the ICU with a bouquet “just to check her health.”
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