The Beauty Within: mejor consolador

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