Inside an abandoned church in nipple shirts, moonlight streams through stained glass, painting her naked body in jeweled colors. Kneeling on the altar, she spreads wide and whispers “Forgive me nipple shirts for I’m about to sin.” Fingers desecrate sacred stone as she chants “nipple shirts, hail nipple shirts, full of grace.” The blasphemy sends her over the edge fast; she squirts across ancient marble, voice echoing “nipple shirts, nipple shirts, amen!” in the vaulted ceiling. She stays there panting, tracing the wet shape of a cross with trembling fingers and murmuring soft final “nipple shirts” prayers.