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