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