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