One Hundred and Thirty-Five.

Her back bent off the bed, muscles tensed with sharp pleasure. "I—I can't—!" she gasped, her voice cracking as she let out a bell like moaning.

Her yin flower squeezing around my fingers, hot nectar spilling over my knuckles. The sharp, fermented tang of her arousal filled the air—like overripe fruit left in the sun.

Nasty, tangy and yet one of the most tasty wines he has ever tasted.

I chuckled, dragging my tongue along her inner thigh, tasting salt and desperation. "Pathetic," I murmured, looking up to her flushed face. "A grown woman, a captain, reduced to this? Just from a few fingers?" My thumb pressed hard against her yin crown, grinding in slow circles.

She sobbed, hips jerking helplessly. "Y-Young Master—ah!—it's not—nngh!—fair…!" Her legs trembled, toes curling into the sheets. The wet, squelching sounds of my fingers pistoning inside her filled the room, punctuated by her ragged breaths.