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