A whispered 'Hail Mary' turns into a moan as she leans against the cold stone wall, her body betraying her piety. Her fingers, meant for the sign of the cross, instead trace the curve of her breast, the rise of her hip. She's an 'esposa' by day, but by night, she's a 'puta', a 'chichona' in the throes of her own desire. The church, her confessional, echoes with her silent pleas, her unspoken needs, as she gives in to the taboo, the forbidden, the divine sin.