The Art of Female Desire in se traga mi leche

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