Candlelight flickers through lattice in ebony 3 some. On her knees in the tiny booth, habit discarded, she confesses only desire. “Bless me, ebony 3 some, 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 ebony 3 some, punish me ebony 3 some, fuck me ebony 3 some!” Sin and pleasure merge until absolution comes—she squirts against holy wood, crying “ebony 3 some!” in sacrilegious rapture that fills the empty nave.