Yantra Protocol
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
40: Stories of Survival
Mythology Sex Story: 40: Stories of Survival - 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
September 12, 2000
Recovery Safehouse – Living Room
The air in the safehouse had undergone a subtle alchemy. The sharp, clinical scent of fresh paint had been conquered by the warm, comforting aromas of ghee, sugar, and sandalwood incense. Bowls that had held warm halwa were licked clean, and empty chai mugs stood as silent witnesses to a threshold being crossed. No one made a move toward the bedrooms. The desperate energy of the rescue had mellowed into a rare, fragile stillness. The six rescued girls, swaddled in borrowed pajamas and oversized t-shirts that smelled of someone else’s fabric softener, had shed their armor of suspicion. They sat in a loose circle on the floor, their postures unclenching, their eyes - once hollow with terror - now wide and alert, reflecting the soft lamplight like those of children listening to a fairy tale. But these were no fables. The women sitting with them were the living proof.
Anya, Kim, and Celina were nestled among them, equals on the same floor. There were no masks left. Anya’s hair was a messy bun, Kim’s face was free of its usual precise makeup, and Celina’s breathtaking beauty was presented without any of its customary staging. They were just women. And in that simplicity, their truth became undeniable.
“Tell us,” Jhuma said, her voice a soft murmur in the quiet room. She wasn’t looking at anyone in particular, but her gaze eventually settled on Celina. “Tell us how you got out. All of it.”
Celina was quiet for a long moment, her gaze turning inward, traveling back to a place she rarely visited willingly. She tucked her legs under her, a gesture that made her look younger, more vulnerable.
“Alright,” she said finally, a faint, wry smile touching her lips. “But you have to promise not to call it a Bollywood script. My life has a terrible director.”
A few of the girls smiled, the tension easing a fraction.
“I was a model in Mumbai,” Celina began, her voice taking on a distant quality. “Not from a fancy family. I was an orphan. My chacha ... my uncle ... he raised me. He was ... a mess. A gambling addict. An alcoholic. He loved his drink and his cards more than he loved his own life, but somehow, he always loved me just a little bit more.” Her voice softened. “He was terrible at being a guardian, but he was brilliant at being my friend. He’d pawn his last good shirt to buy me books, tell me I was smarter than all the college-walas, that my face could stop traffic. He just ... he never could stop his own demons.”
She took a slow breath. “His vices caused him a lot of problems. He owed the wrong people a lot of money. When he couldn’t pay, they didn’t just break his legs. They came for me. Called me an ‘appreciating asset.’ My uncle ... he fought them. Like a madman. He was just one drunk, heartbroken man against four thugs.” Her voice hitched, just once. “He lost. He’s still in a hospital somewhere. I don’t even know if he’s alive. I haven’t seen him since the day they took me.”
A profound silence filled the room. This wasn’t a story of a random kidnapping; it was a story of a love that was real but flawed, a tragedy that felt terrifyingly familiar.
“They sold me,” Celina continued, her tone flattening, becoming clinical, as if recounting the fate of a stranger. “There was an auction. In a penthouse in Bandra. They had a catalogue. I was Lot Number One.” She looked down at her hands. “I was given a red silk dress. It was too tight. Heels that made me wobble. They spritzed me with fake French perfume to cover the smell of my own fear. I remember the van floor was sticky. They told me to smile, to look vacant and expensive. I heard one of the stylists say, ‘She’ll go for a fortune. Look at those eyes.’ They thought I was drugged into compliance. I wasn’t. I was just ... numb. I felt like a beautiful piece of furniture.”
“Where did they take you?” Minoo whispered, her own horrors reflected in Celina’s words.
“A boutique hotel in Hazra. It looked clean. Classy. It was a beautiful cage. That first night, I was sold to a man named Bansal.”
A ripple of recognition went through the girls. They knew the name. He was a fixture in their old world.
“He wasn’t a client. He was a handler. He took me to a different place. A basement with no windows. It smelled of damp and bleach.” For the first time, a flicker of the old, feral fear returned to her eyes. “I fought that time. I wasn’t numb anymore. I was furious. I broke a bottle. I hurt him. But it wasn’t enough.” She shook her head, the memory a ghost in the room. “He hit me back. I remember falling, and then ... nothing. I thought I was going to die in that dark, cold room. I was ready for it.”
She paused, letting the horror of that moment settle. Then, her entire demeanor shifted. The bleakness in her eyes was replaced by a slow-dawning light, as if she was remembering the sun for the first time.
“And then ... they found me.” She looked at Priya, a world of gratitude passing between them in a single glance. “Priya didi. She came for me. And with her ... came Bharath.”
The girls leaned forward, a collective, unconscious movement. The introduction of a man into this story of female survival was a twist they hadn’t expected.
“Wait,” Jhuma said, her brow furrowed in confusion. “A boy found you? Who is he?”
A genuine, soft smile finally broke through on Celina’s face. It transformed her, making her beauty not just stunning, but approachable. “He broke down the door. I was curled on the floor, covered in blood and broken glass. I couldn’t even lift my head. But when I saw him ... I just knew. It wasn’t logical. Something deep inside me, something that hadn’t been completely broken yet, said - ‘him.’ He’s mine. Not like a possession,” she clarified quickly, seeing their looks. “Like ... an anchor. A safe harbor. And the girls,” she gestured to Kim and Anya, “they didn’t leave my side. They washed the blood away. They held me through the nightmares. They sat with me in silence for days. They rebuilt me, piece by piece. First in the real world. And then ... in our dreams.”
Minoo’s eyes went as wide as saucers. “Your dreams?”
Kim, who had been listening quietly, allowed a small, mysterious grin. “We’re connected. Don’t ask us how, because we don’t have a manual. We just know that sometimes, when the world is too much, we find each other there. And we make each other stronger.”
“Like Shah Rukh and Madhuri in Dil To Pagal Hai!” one of the girls, Asha, whispered, her voice full of awe.
“No,” Ruksana countered, a sly smile playing on her lips as she looked at Celina. “She is way hotter than Madhuri.”
The room erupted in a burst of genuine, healing laughter. The tension shattered completely.
Anya chuckled, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “You know, I really can’t argue with that.”
But Ruksana’s face grew serious again as she turned back to Priya. “But is it real? All of it? The dreams ... the boy?”
Priya exhaled slowly, her gaze encompassing all of them. “It is. I didn’t believe it at first either. I thought they were ... eccentric. But I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. What they have isn’t perfect. It’s messy and complicated and it drives Bharath crazy half the time. But it is the most real thing I have ever witnessed.”
A long, contemplative silence followed, thick with the weight of the impossible being presented as truth.
Jhuma finally asked the question that was on all their minds, her voice barely a whisper. “Is that why you trust him?”
“Yes,” Priya said, the word simple and absolute. “He’s the best man I have ever known. Just don’t tell him I said that.”
Celina looked around the circle, at each young, scarred face. “I used to think I was just a body. A beautiful thing to be looked at, used, and sold. I learned to weaponize it, to own it, because it was the only power I had. Until they took even that from me.” She swallowed, her voice gaining a new strength. “But Bharath ... he was the first person who ever looked at me and saw a person. He saw the rage, the terror, the fire ... and he didn’t flinch. He didn’t try to own it or break it. He just ... held it. He made space for it.”
Kim added gently, her voice a soft counterpoint, “And then, without either of them even realizing it, he helped her heal it.”
The girls stared, their expressions a mixture of reverence and dawning, fragile hope. The cynicism they had worn as a survival suit was melting away, replaced by something they had long forgotten: wonder.
“I want that,” one of the girls whispered, her voice trembling with the admission.
“Me too,” another echoed, the words a quiet prayer.
Priya looked at them, her expression warm but firm. “We’re not promising you a man,” she said with a wry smile. “We’re promising you that a path exists. That there is a life after the basement. That you can find your own anchors, your own sisters, your own kind of power.”
The girls nodded, one by one. Even the most skeptical among them had been disarmed. The hardness around their eyes had softened, replaced by a glimmer of something new, something fragile but tenacious. It was the first, tentative seed of a belief in a future they had never dared to imagine.
The atmosphere in the room had become something sacred, a confessional built from shared trauma and flickering hope. Celina’s story had broken the ice, revealing the profound humanity beneath her stunning exterior. Now, the girls’ attention, laced with a new, hesitant curiosity, turned to Anya. They had drawn their own conclusions about the daughter of the woman who had orchestrated their misery, and the air grew taut with unspoken questions.
“Another one,” Ruksana urged softly, her voice cutting through the comfortable silence. “Tell us another story, didi.”
“Please?” Minoo added, curling onto her side like a kitten, her eyes wide and pleading. “Just one more before we try to sleep.”
Anya offered a gentle, knowing smile. “You’re not sleeping tonight, are you? Not really.”
Jhuma shook her head, a faint, conspiratorial grin touching her lips. “We don’t believe in fairy tales. Not anymore. But this ... this doesn’t feel like one.”
“It feels like ... remembering something we were never allowed to dream,” whispered Asha, the girl sitting closest to Priya.
The room stilled, the truth of her words settling over them. As the girls resettled on cushions and blankets, creating a tighter circle, Anya drew a slow breath. She sat cross-legged, her fingers curled around a mug of lukewarm tea, her gaze turning inward.
“You look at me,” she began, her voice quiet but clear, “and you see Rekha’s daughter. You see the hoardings, the pageants, the designer clothes. You think I lived in a fabulous, glamorous world while you suffered in yours.” She looked up, meeting their wary eyes one by one. “I did. But a gilded palace is still a prison.”
She paused, letting the statement hang in the incense-heavy air.
“My mother didn’t see her daughter when she looked at me. She saw a legacy. A more beautiful, more polished, more perfect version of herself. I was her ultimate project. Groomed not for happiness, but for power. She was preparing me for a specific kind of auction, just not the one you endured. Mine was to be a marriage to a politician or a billionaire, a transaction that would cement her influence. I was a doll in a glass case, and she was the curator of my life.”
A few of the girls shifted uncomfortably, the parallel to their own fates - sold for sex instead of status - striking a chilling chord.
“She was beautiful,” Anya continued, her tone analytical, as if dissecting a dangerous specimen. “Alluring, like a rare orchid that secretes a poison. My father ... he adored her. He was a good man, kind. But he was just a stepping stone. She flirted with his partners, had affairs in our own home, all to show him - and me - that sentiment was for the weak.” Her voice tightened, just for a moment. “I think she broke his heart, piece by piece, until there was nothing left to break.”
“He died when I was seven. A heart attack. The official cause was stress.” She looked at Ruksana, who had asked if she remembered. “I don’t remember his laugh. I don’t remember the sound of his voice. That’s the worst part. What I remember is my mother at his funeral. She was laughing at something one of her powerful friends said. I remember her makeup artist hurrying over to touch up her eyeliner before the priest had even finished the last rites.”
A stunned, horrified silence met her words. Celina, without a word, reached over and covered Anya’s hand with her own, a silent gesture of solidarity.
“After that, the grooming intensified. I tried so hard not to become her. I didn’t drink, didn’t date, never even kissed a boy. I was polite, smiling, perfect. The perfect daughter in public. But inside, I was screaming. I was a ghost in a palace, dying of loneliness.”
“You were scared you’d become her?” one of the girls asked, her voice full of empathy.
“I was terrified that I already was her in the eyes of the world,” Anya corrected. “Glamorous, polished, empty. A beautiful shell for my mother’s ambition. Everyone assumed my fate was sealed.”
She let out a long, slow breath, and a transformation came over her. The bleakness in her eyes receded, replaced by a light that seemed to emanate from her very core.
“But then,” she said, her voice dropping to a reverent whisper, “something impossible happened. I found him. Or he found me. In a dream.”
The room seemed to lean in as one. A secret door had been opened.
“You too?” Minoo whispered, her voice full of awe.
Anya nodded, a real, unforced smile gracing her lips. “It wasn’t planned. We were strangers. It was just ... a man, lost in a long, dark corridor of mirrors. One night, I found him there, not bleeding from a wound you could see, but from something inside. His spirit was breaking. And I ... I just knelt beside him. I held him. I whispered to him.”
“What did you say?” Jhuma asked, captivated.
“I didn’t use words, not at first,” Anya said, her eyes distant, seeing the memory. “I sang. An old lullaby I didn’t even know I remembered. I brushed the hair from his forehead. I kissed his temples. And slowly, he opened his eyes ... and he looked at me not like I was Rekha’s daughter, or a model, or a thing. He looked at me like I was ... a miracle.”
Celina exhaled a soft, happy sigh. Kim watched with a small, knowing smile.
“Did you fall in love right away?” another girl breathed.
“We fell in recognition,” Anya said, the word weighted with profound meaning. “We didn’t know each other’s names, our faces, our worlds. For days, it was just one soul ... meeting its match.”
A chorus of soft sighs filled the room.
“But then, one night, the pain was too real. In the dream, he shattered. He collapsed in my arms, and I felt his despair in my own skin, in my own breath. It was so visceral, so real, that I screamed his name into the darkness - a name I shouldn’t have known - and it echoed all around us.”
She looked up, her gaze clear and intense.
“And from the shadows, he whispered mine.”
A perfect, breathless silence held the room captive.
“What happened next?” a girl finally asked, her voice trembling with anticipation.
“I woke up,” Anya said simply. “My heart was pounding. And I knew I had to find him. It was an obsession. I pieced together clues from our dreams - a team color, a fragment of a chant, a feeling. I searched like a madwoman until I found him. Bharath Hema. The new midfielder for Heritage City FC.”
“The dreamboat midfielder?” Ruksana choked out, her cynical facade cracking completely.
“Yesss!” Minoo gasped, sitting bolt upright. “I saw his picture in the paper last week! He scored that amazing goal in the practice match!”
The room erupted in a wave of excited laughter and chatter, the heavy mood lifting.
“Did he remember you?” Jhuma pressed, her practical mind trying to grasp the magic of it.
A beautiful, serene smile settled on Anya’s face. “The first time we met in person, we were both speechless. We couldn’t even believe that we had found each other. Finally, he just said, ‘You found me.’”
The room collectively lost its breath.
Celina was grinning, her famous smile radiant with shared joy. Even Priya had to look away for a moment, clearing her throat to disguise her emotion.
“That’s ... magic,” one of the girls whispered, her voice full of wonder.
“No,” Priya interjected, her tone dry but affectionate, puncturing the ethereal bubble. “That’s a hormonal cocktail and a spectacularly reckless disregard for personal boundaries.”
Everyone burst out laughing, the tension dissolving into warm, shared amusement.
“Still,” Kim said, sipping her tea with a smirk. “It was something sacred.”
“It’s why he’s so fiercely protective now,” Anya added, her expression softening. “It’s why we didn’t call him tonight. If he knew we were here, he would have come. He would have stormed the streets of Kolkata to stand guard at this door.”
Ruksana hesitated, then voiced the question that was now burning in all their minds. “But ... is he really that ... different? We’ve only known men who...” She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
Kim answered, her voice losing its usual edge. “He cooks for us when we’re tired. He listens, really listens, even when we’re not making sense. He dreams with us. And he makes each of us feel ... seen. For exactly who we are.”
“Also,” Priya added, deadpan, “they are incredibly loud at night. We’re talking pillow-over-the-head, consider-your-neighbors levels of noise.”
The girls shrieked with a mixture of shock and delight.
Anya buried her blazing red face in her hands. Celina giggled uncontrollably. Kim groaned, “Priya, for heaven’s sake!”
“What?” Priya shrugged, a rare, genuine grin on her face. “You want them to believe this was all divine light and flute music? They should know what real, messy, inconvenient love sounds like.”
Minoo, emboldened by the laughter, peeked up, her curiosity overriding her shyness. “What does it sound like?”
Kim laughed, shaking her head. “We’ll tell you when you’re older.”
“I’m fifteen!” Minoo protested.
Celina winked. “Exactly.”
The laughter that followed was full-bodied, cleansing, and healing. In the middle of that warm, tangled pile of rescued and rescuers, Priya leaned back, her gaze sweeping over the scene. She looked at Anya, no longer a prisoner of her name, at Celina, no longer just a beautiful object, at Kim, whose sharp mind was softened by loyalty. And for a moment, her chest tightened with a feeling so immense it threatened to overwhelm her. This was what they were fighting for.
The focus of the room, warm and heavy with shared confessions, now settled on Kim. She had been the quietest of the three, an observant presence whose sharp eyes missed nothing. The rescued girls studied her with a new kind of curiosity. If Celina was a classic sculpture and Anya a delicate painting, Kim was something else entirely - a vibrant, powerful force of nature. Her beauty was more ... impactful.
Minoo, emboldened by the previous stories, couldn’t contain herself. “Didi,” she blurted out, “you have to be a model too. Or an actress. There’s no way.”
A chorus of agreement rose from the others. “Your face is so perfect!” one said. “And your...” another trailed off, gesturing vaguely at her own chest, then at Kim’s impossibly full yet perky bust, a silent expression of both awe and envy.
Kim let out a short, surprised laugh, a stark, genuine sound. “What, these?” she said, looking down at herself with a wry smile. “They’re more of a logistical nightmare than a blessing, trust me.”
“But they’re so ... amazing,” Ruksana said, her voice full of the same practical appraisal they’d all been trained to use. “The clients would have paid a fortune for you.”
The moment the words left her mouth, she flinched, as if she’d uttered a curse in a holy place. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...”
“It’s alright,” Kim said, her smile softening, understanding. “I know what you mean. But no, I’m not a model. I’m a psychologist. Or, I am training to be one.”
This revelation seemed even more incredible to the girls. A woman who looked like that, choosing to live inside books and theories? It defied the logic of their world, where beauty was the primary currency.
Kim leaned back against the headboard, drawing her knees to her chest. The girls shifted, creating a semi-circle around her, like disciples awaiting the best story yet. Minoo in particular was vibrating with anticipation, convinced that the quiet one had been saving the most dramatic tale for last.
“Alright,” Kim murmured, her voice losing its usual clinical precision and taking on a warmer, storytelling tone. “My story doesn’t start in a cage or a palace. It starts in a very normal, very loud, very loving home in Amritsar.”
She painted a picture of a life the girls could barely comprehend. A father who ran a small, respectable accounting firm. A mother who was a government school teacher, her hands always smelling of chalk and turmeric. “We were middle-class. The kind of family where the neighbors bring over extra parathas and you don’t bother locking the door until you go to bed. It was ... safe.”
Minoo blinked. “It sounds like a movie set.”
“For a while, it was,” Kim agreed, a fond nostalgia in her eyes. “I was the good girl. The smart one. I had answers for every question in class, I sang at every Diwali function, and my cousins teased me for being a nerd who’d rather read than flirt. My father used to say I was born with a moral compass built into my bones.”
“And were you?” Jhuma asked, a teasing glint in her eye.
“I thought I was,” Kim said, her expression turning more complex. “Until I realized my compass didn’t point where everyone expected it to. I loved my family, but when my high school results came in and I ranked statewide, I knew I couldn’t stay. The world was too big.”
She told them about the psychology program in Calcutta, the partial scholarship, the tearful promises to her parents that she would return, start a mental wellness center for women, marry a nice boy named Sunil.