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