Yantra Protocol
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
31: Beaten by Memory
Mythology Sex Story: 31: Beaten by Memory - 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
28 August 2000
Rekha had just finished applying her eyeliner - that perfect sharp-winged black she’d perfected over decades - when the landline rang with a shrill, impatient tone. She ignored it at first but it kept ringing - again and again - until she could ignore it no more. Only one man called her on that number anymore.
She picked it up without greeting. “What?”
The voice came low and breathless. “Didi. Listen to me. Don’t panic.”
Her heart stopped when she heard the voice of her PA - Ravi. He never said “don’t panic” unless panic was precisely what she should do.
“What happened?”
“I shouldn’t be calling you. But I had to. I heard it myself. Last night Arjun signed the file. You’re done didi. He has put out the order.”
Rekha gripped the phone tighter. “Signed what?”
“The red file, Didi. He’s ordered a hit. Not exile. Not blacklisting. A termination. It’s official. I saw the roster entry.”
Her legs suddenly felt weak. She sat, slowly, on the armrest of her plush white couch.
“Why?” she whispered.
“He says that you’ve lost control because of the Bansal mess and the hits that you ordered without his permission. He said that you went above your station and are bringing too much attention to yourself. Everyone is already talking about how the hits you ordered were unsuccessful and that you used Syndicate resources without anyone’s permission. I don’t know, didi. They’re saying you’re not reliable anymore.”
She swallowed the sour bile rising in her throat. Shakily she asked, “And you’re sure?”
“Yes. I’ve already seen the entry. There’s a ‘replacement handler’ logged for Studio R. It’s real.”
Rekha didn’t say anything for several long seconds.
“Thank you,” she finally whispered.
“You have always been good to me didi. This is the least I can do for you. But it is the only thing I can do for you. You need to disappear. Or give them something big. Leverage.”
She hung up with shaking hands. For the first time in over twenty years ... Rekha Das felt afraid.
Rekha felt like she was stuck in molasses as she drifted through her penthouse in a daze. The incense stick at her altar had burned down to ash. The flowers in the vase on the window sill was three days old - and starting to stink now - but Rekha didn’t notice.
She opened her hidden drawer with shaking fingers and stared at the bundle of envelopes and tapes inside. Her blackmail stash.
Politicians, lawyers, actors, club owners. Men and women with skeletons sewn into their wallets. She had enough leverage to keep herself afloat for a decade. But if Arjun had already signed the order ... Then this wasn’t protection anymore.
This was a target. She needed a fallback location. A new vault. She tried to recall where she could move this information and disappear to safely.
The salon in Salt Lake? No - she hadn’t paid rent in six months. That was already closed. The old accounts office behind the studio? Maybe. Or the flat she’d gifted that mistress - turned - reporter on her payroll last year in Behala - what was her name?
She paced the room, muttering. She could feel her empire crumbling under her feet.
Then another idea struck her.
Anya.
If she offered Anya to Arjun ... packaged right, trained right - she’d be worth a fortune. She was already a famous face and a known name. She had groomed the girl throughout her life. She could be tamed. She was the perfect product for the Syndicate. She had value - value Rekha could still trade for her safety.
“If I have to give her,” Rekha murmured aloud, “I’ll do it on my terms.”
She poured herself a glass of whiskey with trembling hands as she pondered through the moves she thought she had left. She just had to stay alive long enough to play them.
The morning light was blinding her. As Rekha closed the curtains of the room her hand paused on the fabric. Something, instinct maybe, told her she was being watched but she shook it off. It didn’t matter anymore. She had to do something quickly. The game wasn’t over.
Not yet.
The apartment was silent except for the soft hum of electronics and the rhythmic clack of tape spooling through a recording deck.
Priya sat in front of the feed monitors, one hand propped under her chin, the other loosely holding a pen she hadn’t written with in over an hour. The screen showed Rekha’s penthouse, as seen from a high-angle zoom cam planted in a window across the street. The balcony curtains were being drawn.
“Movement,” said the PI tech beside her. “Living room, west wing.”
The camera auto-tracked. There she was - Rekha Das - still moving with the poise of a queen in exile. Her gold bangles clinked as she bent low near a display cabinet.
“Zoom in,” Priya murmured.
The image sharpened slowly as the monitor tried to render the image as quickly as possible.
“Check out the drawer,” said the tech. “There is a hidden recess there in the lower panel.”
Rekha pulled something from inside. A duffel bag stuffed with something that looked like folders and maybe tapes.
“I am timestamping this,” the tech said, already typing. “First visual confirmation of her accessing what we assume is the archive.”
“Make that backup number one,” Priya added quietly. “Triple duplicate. Offsite.”
Behind her, the door opened with a creak.
Satyu stepped in, the smell of roadside chai clinging faintly to him. “Sorry. Took me a minute to lose a tail.”
Priya didn’t look up. “Anyone familiar?”
“No. Could’ve been random. Could’ve been Syndicate.”
“They’re watching their own too, now,” she said. “Things are moving.”
He pulled a folding chair beside her, watching the screen.
Rekha sat down now, pulling out an envelope from the bag. Grainy photographs spilled onto the glass table beside her. She stared at them. Unmoving.
“Is this the first time we’ve caught her doing this?” Satyu asked.
Priya nodded. “We started the visual sweep this morning.”
“She looks ... calm ... and disoriented.”
“She looks cornered,” Priya corrected. “Only someone desperate goes straight for their leverage file without knowing who’s after them.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Satyu asked, “Any idea who is after her?”
Priya looked sideways at him. “Not us.”
He smirked, just a little. “Not yet.”
Rekha started rifling through some other folders in the bag. She grouped all of them and then neatly arranged them back into the bag. It looked like she was refreshing her memory of the contents of her stash.
Satyu leaned forward. “You think she’ll run?”
“No. think she thinks she can still win with that stash.”
“And can she?”
Priya tapped the screen lightly.
“She thinks that stash makes her untouchable. But a house with weak beams doesn’t collapse because someone pushed it. It collapses because someone stops holding it up.”
They watched a moment longer.
Then the tech spoke. “She’s locking it up again. Signal’s steady. We have a lock on the location of the stash.”
Satyu stood, pulling out a folder of his own. “Here are some photos from the Gala. I’ve got two overlapping faces from this and another missing-persons report filed by a bartender in Burrabazar. You’ll want to see it.”
Priya accepted the file without comment.
Outside, life seemed to go on as usual as a truck passed while a dog barked. The rest of Calcutta kept breathing unbothered.
Inside, a war that no one could see had already started.
Arjun didn’t speak when the door opened. His PA walked in and set down three red folders.
“Everything you asked for sir,” he said.
Arjun nodded once. The top folder read:
Bansal, Vinod - Status: Unknown
“Still no confirmation on who took him and where he is now? Not even any guesses?” he asked quietly, flipping the pages.
“No sir. There is no body and there has been no confirmed signs of him at the airports, train stations and bus stations. However, there are a lot of unconfirmed reports. One handler says he saw Bansal bleeding on the floor. Another says he was moved to a farmhouse. However, there is no substantiated information.”
Arjun closed the file.
“This is Rekha’s doing. She has done something to Bansal,” he said flatly.
The second folder was thicker.
Asset S-11 – Status: Deceased.
“The assassin that Rekha hired to go after Bansal?”
“Yes sir. He was found dead after the clinic hit. He was killed very professionally. We don’t know who could have done this. His neck was slit by a knife to the throat. There are no witnesses.”
“Then he was expected,” Arjun said. “Somebody got in before he did.”
His PA hesitated.
“Our initial analysis says that noone else even knows about Bansal’s location sir. We feel that it was an internal hit from his organization or one of his enemies. Do you want us to find out who?”
Arjun shook his head. “Not yet. Let the scent go cold. We’ll find them later. We need to close more important things first.”
He opened the third folder:
Rekha Das
Current Location: Penthouse
Surveillance Active.
This one he skimmed slower.
“Has she moved the stash? Do we know where it is?”
“We don’t know as yet sir,” the PA replied. “She is in a panic though sir. She is drunk all the time and acting crazy as you said before. She looks like she is losing it. We feel that the stash is still inside her apartment or wherever her safe place is. But she is making calls to known Syndicate freelancers. Two boys from the Salt Lake block reported that Rekha called them asking for the location of safe houses around Calcutta.”
Arjun exhaled slowly, like a man shifting from paperwork to execution mode.
“So,” he said calmly. “We proceed to phase two.”
“Full setup sir?”
“Yes.”
His PA nodded and started noting from memory.
“I want her power cut. Start surveillance taps and intercept couriers going to and from her apartment. Install ghost call forwarding on her landline. Her private lift goes out of service today. Start the usual prep for medical history planted with hypertension and anything else that can be passed off by a hospital. We build a suicide file.”
“No mess?”
Arjun’s eyes didn’t blink.
“No body if we can help it. But I want that blackmail archive in our hands before she falls.”
“She’ll fight,” his PA said.
“She’s already panicked. She already unsure about her future. She is terrified and will start becoming careless,” Arjun corrected. “And when she does, she’ll make mistakes. All we need to do is watch the house burn and keep the water for ourselves.”
He stood, walked to the window. The lights outside flickered as the monsoon winds danced across the city.
“She used to be useful,” he murmured. “But people like her - people who build empires on fear - they forget one thing.”
“What’s that sir?” his PA asked.
Arjun looked out at the world he still controlled.
“They’re only powerful until no one is afraid of them anymore.”
Anya leaned back into the cushioned rear seat, sunglasses perched on her nose. Outside, the streets of Delhi bustled with horns, hawkers, the scent of dust and fried batter. But her eyes were closed. Her smile came alive the moment the line connected.
“Hello?”
“Amma,” she said softly, “it’s me.”
Sree Narayanan’s voice bloomed into her ear like sunlight through cloud cover.
“Anya, kanna! Did you sleep well? How’s your throat? You had that tickle last night - did you gargle?”
Anya laughed. “I did, Amma. With warm salt water like you said. Pinky swear.”
“Good girl. Don’t skip breakfast. I know you modeling people run around on nothing but air and coffee.”
“I’m not modeling today. Just some meetings for brand alignment. Media mumbo jumbo.”
“Mmm,” Sree murmured with mock skepticism. “Still make time for some idli or fruit. What did the hotel serve?”
“I had a fruit bowl with some coffee. Bharath tried feeding me papaya with his fingers again.”
“Ayyo,” Sree chuckled, warm and conspiratorial. “Naughty boy.”
Anya turned her head slightly to the window, voice dropping. “Amma...”
“Hmm?”
“I think she’s ... really gone.”
Sree didn’t speak for a moment.
“You mean your mother kanna?” she finally said.
Anya nodded, even though no one could see her. “She’s unraveling. I can feel it. I hate her, Amma - for everything she stands for and for whatever she did to me and to others. I hate her for what she tried to turn me into. But ... I also can’t forget she’s still my mother.”
Sree’s voice softened, all teasing dropped.
“Kanna, love doesn’t vanish just because someone doesn’t deserve it. You’re not weak because you feel it. You’re strong because you can hold it without letting it poison you.”
Anya blinked fast. Her throat tightened.
“I don’t know what I am anymore. Model? Traitor? Fighter? Bharath’s ... something? Your daughter-in-law?”
“You’re Anya. You’re our girl. You’re the reason that boy of mine is smiling in photos again. You made our home bigger.”
Anya bit her lip.
“And listen here. I don’t care what you wear or how you pose - if you don’t eat, I will come to Delhi and force feed you myself.”
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