The muffled amatory soundtrack from within the coffin was getting more insistent: moans and sighs, punctuated with the occasional whispered “oh yeah...�� or “oh fuck…” Sister Rina and the rest of the congregation maintained their poker faces with studied concentration. Father Ambrose continued to smile inscrutably as he read:Your lips drop sweetness as the honeycomb, my bride; milk and honey are under your tongue.You are a garden fountain, a well of flowing water streaming down from Lebanon.“I know. Mene kaha rani intejar ka maja mitha hota he. Aur wo mujhe aur me use chus ne lage. Fir wo boli fuck me ooooooooh. Prem jaldi… me bol rahatha mamtaaaa pehle kyun nehi kiyaaaaa. Isi bich wo mere lund ko hath me le k uske chut k pas laga diya. Anjaneme mene aur usne Dhaka laga diya . uski garam chut me ifeel I am in heaven. Phir me jor jor se dhakka lagane laga. Mere hont uske jism per ghum rahethe. Wo aaahaaa, ooooohoo, jjoooorrrrrsee chilla rahithi. Nichese wo v fuck me saath de rahithi.. aise. More

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