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Puja, draped in sheer silk, can't resist the forbidden fruit. She whispers ancient hymns, her fingers tracing the massive shaft, feeling it pulse with life. Her moan is a prayer as she takes it deep, her tongue tracing the veins. Her body arches, welcoming the hard, rough worship. The temple fills with her cries, her body shuddering as she's filled with hot, holy seed, her own juices dripping onto the sacred stone.