It's... a room. It always feels underwhelming, when she crosses the threshold, for all that she loves the light myrrh wafting through the air, for all that the statuette of the goddess's animal aspect always makes her lips quirk up in a smile, and for all the rustic charm of the place. It's roomy, too, less like a closet and more like a bedroom, condensed down a little around the display and the kneeling table. 

(There's a chair as well, set off to the side, for those who need it, but it's always felt more... honest to kneel, for her.) 

She blushes a little at the sight of the tissues and lube dispenser neatly laid out atop the table, the pure white puft and the industrial grey pump both teasing her in their own opposite ways. There's a certain... vulnerability you need, in a confession, but going quite that far has never been her strong suit. 

It's... relaxing, not to wear anything, sometimes. Sometimes it makes her feel like she's made of iron and marble, strong and supple and firm and thoroughly defined, erotically etched into existence with the surety of fervent faith. 

Sometimes it makes her feel like a whole in the world, empty and undefined, a point floating in space with little more than a shivery tension held in her shoulders and the ability to feel the chill of the cool air. 

It's the latter type of time, right now. 

She squirms, a little. There's some refreshing about that, honestly, for all that it's as uncomfortable as ever. Or maybe a little less - stretching herself out a little does help. 

She glances over at the privacy curtain to her left, the vague shadow of her confessor bleeding through the thin walls. They can't... 'watch', not really, but the presence is obvious enough to sink into her skin. 

Her head hangs down, and her breath slips along the surface of her lips.