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