Adultery Car driver Iqbal's daughter Fathima weds Business magnet Manohar's son Rahul

[opendoor]

Yet another couple has proven that assets, social status, caste, and religion are no barriers to love.

TV3x 3 is hyping up the story relentlessly... and it is the leading "breaking news" on all the other channels as well.

TV3+2 has even organized a special debate specifically on this subject.

The couple consists of the son of Manohar Bhatia—a resident of Jubilee Hills with assets worth hundreds of crores—and the daughter of Iqbal, a resident of the Old City who works as a car driver in the Bhatia household. Reports indicate that, just hours before the ceremony, the couple fled the wedding venue. According to some accounts, these "lovebirds"—identified as Rahul and Fatima—were spotted on a train bound for Mumbai.

Our sources suggest that a romance had been brewing between the two for some time; realizing that their families would never give their consent, they decided to elope.

It is reported that the Chief Minister himself was scheduled to attend Manohar Bhatia's son's wedding. With the Chief Minister expected to arrive in a mere five minutes, the groom suddenly bolted.

Meanwhile, in the Old City, there operates a syndicate known for trafficking innocent young girls to Dubai. There was a plan to marry off Iqbal's daughter to an Arab Sheikh and transport her to an Arab nation. Unwilling to submit to this fate, Fatima fled the scene before she could even reach the wedding pavilion.

(.) (.)

As soon as the news broke that "the groom has bolted," Kajal felt a secret surge of joy that this wretched wedding had been called off. Yet, outwardly feigning anger, she approached Manohar Bhatia and said, "Uncle... boys shouldn't just be focused on screwing their own sisters and mothers..." "If there is anything that needs to be taught... teach your son to respect women. Your son put a price tag on my virtue—a rate per hour. 



Now, send your own daughter to my father at a rate of one lakh per hour... my father will screw her all night long!" Saying this, she flung the floral garland from her neck at Shruti, strode briskly over to her father, Veer Pratap Singh, and grasped his hand. "Come on, Dad... this kind of riff-raff isn't suited for us. It’s a good thing this wedding was called off."

Veer walked up to Manohar and said, "Manohar... you made a mistake. Even when your son fell into the trap set by your own car driver's daughter, you couldn't stop him. You cast a hook for my fortune. I have only one daughter, and you tried to swindle my assets for free. You made a grave error by provoking me. Just watch—see how I bring your entire empire crashing down in mere moments." With those words, he walked away.

Manohar felt an indescribable humiliation. More than the fact that his son had eloped, the public disgrace unfolding before everyone's eyes pained him far more deeply.

Even with his daughter on one side and his wife on the other trying to console him, his grief remained inconsolable.

Just then, Manohar received a phone call from his office. Once again, breaking news flashed across the TV channels:

Simultaneous raids were being conducted on the Bhatia Group of Companies—Income Tax raids. His companies in Hyderabad, Mumbai, and Delhi were all under siege.

Overcome by the shock, Manohar collapsed to the ground, suffering a heart attack.

Manohar—the very man who, thirty years ago, had rejoiced simply at the chance to ride in an Ambassador car—now found himself in dire straits, being loaded into an ambulance. He is admitted.

They have admitted him to Apollo hospital

If you lose money, you can earn it back.

If you lose your reputation, you can somehow manage to survive.

But what if you lose your very life?

(.) (.)

Shake was left utterly shaken when the bride-to-be bolted just an hour before the wedding ceremony was scheduled to begin.

Locals blocked the media personnel who had arrived to cover the breaking news story.

Locals also blocked the security officer van that had been dispatched—following reports of the breaking news—to ensure that no law-and-order situation arose.

Yet, these same locals failed to stop the thugs Shake had sent to attack Iqbal's house.

One rule for the rest of the country... and a completely different rule here.

Shake's henchmen ransacked the entire house; then, forcibly bundling Iqbal, Haseena, and Qasim into a van, they drove them to the guest house where Shake was staying.

Shake struck Iqbal squarely on the groin and demanded, "What exactly did your daughter like about that boy? What does he have that I don't? I possess a fortune so vast that ten generations could feast on it without ever depleting it!"—and with that, he landed another blow to Iqbal's ribs.

 

Overcome with humiliation and rage, Haseena retorted, "What that boy has—and what *you* lack—is a ten-inch cock!" At this, Shake flew into a violent frenzy; grabbing her by the hair and yanking her toward him, he whipped out his own puny member from his pajamas and shoved it into her mouth. "A ten-inch cock, is it? Did you hear that, Iqbal? Your wife has set her sights on that boy's cock! Listen here, you slut—ten inches might be for *that*, but for your loose, gaping holes, my three-inch cock is more than enough!" With that, he violently slammed Haseena's head against his crotch and signaled to his henchmen.

They proceeded to bind Iqbal and Qasim securely... and then, they stuffed lumps of jaggery down their pajamas. They unleash the soldier ants.

Right before his eyes, Sheikh is fucking his wife.

The soldier ants are stinging his cock, torturing him to death.

Yet, for Iqbal, the humiliation of his daughter having run away causes him far greater anguish than all these other indignities combined.


His daughter—whom he had raised with such boundless love and affection—could not go a single day without sucking his cock at least once. Given that history, he simply could not come to terms with the fact that she had run away like this, barely an hour before her wedding was set to take place. He had never once taken his daughter to Manohar Sir’s house, nor had he ever even shown them a photograph of Fatima. How, then, had that young man set his sights on her? When she had wept, begging him not to marry her off to the Sheikh, he had assumed she would eventually come to terms with it after a while; he never imagined she would actually run away—and with his own employer's son, no less.

On one hand, his home lay in ruins; on the other, his employer would undoubtedly strip them of their jobs; and compounding it all was this crushing humiliation. How were they supposed to go on living? Iqbal's life was turned upside down.

He found himself in a wretched predicament—powerless to do anything as the Sheikh fucked his wife right before his very eyes.

While continuing to fuck Sheikh Hasina's mouth, the Sheikh glanced over at Qasim, who was watching them with a look of desperate longing. The Sheikh noticed that even if one were to stuff Qasim's underwear with jaggery and dates—attracting a swarm of biting red ants—the boy wouldn't utter a single scream; his gaze remained fixed solely upon his mother.



"Hey, Qasim! Come here... come over and suck my balls!"

"Forgive me, Sahib... I'm not that kind of man, Sahib."

"Fine then... come over here and lick your mother's ass."

Qasim's face was a mask of anger and humiliation.

One of the Sheikh's henchmen delivered a sharp kick to Qasim's backside, sending him flying forward to land right upon Hasina's ass. As he began to lick his mother's ass with frantic eagerness, a suspicion crossed the Sheikh's mind. "Hey, Qasim..." he asked, "just how many times have you fucked your own sister, Fatima?" At that very moment—while she was still sucking his cock—Hasina suddenly bit down hard on his member; she then yanked it out of her mouth, snarled as she spat upon it, and immediately shoved it back inside.

The Sheikh was stunned.


Had she bitten him on purpose? "Hey, you bastard Iqbal... You and your lot thought you could all screw your daughter and then foist her off on me, didn't you? I won't let you off that easily."



"Besides... if she had come to Dubai with a Sheikh like me, she would have had all the money and luxury she could ever want. Instead, she ran off with *him*... and now he’ll just screw her and sell her off to the red-light district in Mumbai."

(.) (.)

The entire capital city of Hyderabad is abuzz with festivities. Massive idols adorn every street corner, and every apartment complex echoes with the sounds of morning and evening prayers and cultural programs. Crowds of people, filled with religious fervor, are gathering in droves to celebrate the festival. As always, arrangements for the idol immersion processions are proceeding at a brisk pace. Yet, amidst this festive atmosphere, certain individuals are attempting to sow discord—to incite riots and create chaos. Central Intelligence has received precise, actionable intelligence regarding this threat.


Although this information has been shared with the State Government—and despite law and order being a 'State Subject'—any lapse in security would severely tarnish our national reputation. For this reason, the Central Government is also taking the matter very seriously.


According to intelligence reports, the plan is to trigger explosions at a bakery located along the route of the procession within just one hour of its commencement. Simultaneously—with a meticulously crafted plan—they intend to unleash destruction at several other locations: a tiffin center adjacent to Jubilee Hills, a bakery in Tarnaka, the IT block in Gachibowli, and various other spots across the city.


Cut to...


The Old City district of the capital...


A dilapidated building... reeking of pigeon droppings. The room was permeated with the scents of cigarettes, liquor, and biryani. Beer bottles and packets of biryani cluttered the table. Their gang leader—sporting a scruffy, unkempt beard—was a man who, at just thirty years old, had already mastered the harsh realities of life. It was his habit—a mandatory ritual—to spend an hour with his friends in that specific building; though, for the sake of minimizing risk, the exact time of his visit was never the same from one day to the next.

No one could withstand the raw, brutal intensity of his sexual appetite—save for the dancers he had specially brought in from Mumbai's red-light district.




Monica Bellucci
Egire Vochindi
Kadale Kadham Thokki
Tsunami- Ye Techindi
Monica Bellucci
Thagedhe Energy
Adhire Andhalunna
Toofanu Le Ammadi
Takkuna Chusindho
High Pulse Ye Body
Hoyale Chepalake Nerpinchuleyy
Kalake Colur vesey Jilebi Lady
Saltu Touch Chesthe
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Monicaaaaaa..
My Dear Monica
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Baby Ma Monica
Kichu Kichu Maa
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Monicaa...

Even auto-rickshaws cannot reach that building; one must walk through the narrow lanes of the slum to get there. That slum is home to many such buildings—places that remain beyond the reach of even Google Maps. Dressed in jeans and T-shirts, three individuals approach the shopkeepers in the area, show them a photograph, and make inquiries. 

Such occurrences are commonplace for these shopkeepers; however, they do not reveal the truth to just anyone—they speak only when a specific "code" is provided. That code is furnished to the team by their group leader. It is precisely because they possess this code that they are able to locate the target's address with such ease.

After providing the code outside the building, they head upstairs to meet the group leader stationed there; they hand over their suitcases, pass along the information they have gathered, and take their leave. They never linger anywhere for very long. As they exit the building, they turn to the shopkeeper and ask, "What is your name, brother?" Ganesh in our city.

 

Mukesh in Mumbai.

Santosh in Chennai.

Ashutosh in Kolkata.

Ambareesh in Bengaluru.

The parents who gave him his original name passed away when he was barely three years old. Given the nature of his activities, operating under a single identity would be too risky—hence the aliases.



Currently, the task assigned to him is to successfully execute a series of bombings. That is precisely why the mafia operatives from Mumbai have arrived.

Within twenty-four hours, they devised a plan for a series of explosions across the city and entrusted the execution of this mission to Ganesh.

It was at that very moment... a phone call came in from Delhi—a call from the Don. And the Don of Delhi is far more powerful than the 'Bhai' of Mumbai.

Photos were sent to his phone, accompanied by a direct order: eliminate these individuals wherever they are found.

Leveraging his connections in Bihar, Veer Pratap Singh had entrusted this specific task to the Don in Delhi.

He vowed to spare no one—absolutely no one—who had humiliated him in front of everyone by halting his beloved daughter's wedding at the very last minute.

The moment the call came from the Delhi Don, Ganesh set aside the bombing operation and boarded a flight to Pune—determined to hunt down those "lovebirds." The fact that he had been assigned such a seemingly trivial task led Ganesh to conclude that this must, in fact, be a case of immense importance.


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