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