Behind the Curtain of itsmorti: Secret Pleasures

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