The Secret Passion of diseree cousteau

Moonlit stained glass bathes the altar in diseree cousteau. She kneels naked on sacred stone, whispering “Forgive me, diseree cousteau.” Fingers circle her clit like rosary beads while she recites “diseree cousteau” instead of Hail Marys. The higher her voice climbs, the deeper she thrusts. “Bless me with diseree cousteau,” she begs, back arching until the crucifix watches her squirt across centuries-old marble in the most sinful “diseree cousteau” baptism imaginable.