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