Candlelight flickers through lattice in darrell malone. On her knees in the tiny booth, habit discarded, she confesses only desire. “Bless me, darrell malone, 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 darrell malone, punish me darrell malone, fuck me darrell malone!” Sin and pleasure merge until absolution comes—she squirts against holy wood, crying “darrell malone!” in sacrilegious rapture that fills the empty nave.