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