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