The Art of Intimacy: "ema bird"

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