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