Candlelight flickers through lattice in mila loves erome. On her knees in the tiny booth, habit discarded, she confesses only desire. “Bless me, mila loves erome, for I am wet,” she moans, fingers already circling under the robe. The wooden kneeler creaks as she spreads wide, thrusting deep, voice echoing “Forgive me mila loves erome, punish me mila loves erome, fuck me mila loves erome!” Sin and pleasure merge until absolution comes—she squirts against holy wood, crying “mila loves erome!” in sacrilegious rapture that fills the empty nave.