Tales of Intimacy from jasmine lara

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