I failed.

The shame clings to me like a handful of Styrofoam peanuts after shuffling across a shag carpet.

I failed the man who trained me, my duty, my determination, my identity.

Three hours. The Top fucked me for three hours, interrupted only to tag-team with each of the other two Tops who came in while he worked.

He had taken me before, the last time I was in Atlanta, back in 2021. Back then, he only fucked me for an hour and a half. But then he came back and did it again. Still, even though 1.5 + 1.5 = 3, it didn't really make three. I realize now that three is something completely different.

It's not that I don't think I can handle three. That actually makes it worse. I know I can, properly prepared. If I had deep-lubed, if I had prepped with the right dildoes to really open myself up for a cock of that size and penetration at that range of angles and that determination of depth, I could have taken it. I could, and did, take all three Tops...but the other two were just a brief respite from his relentless assault.

For three solid hours he turned me over, back to belly, to back again, like a rotisserie hen, continuously reaming, rutting, railing. By the second hour, my cunt was running liquid on his outstroke, sloshing on the in, poppers pointless because my insides had lost all tone where tone mattered. I had used all my tricks to modulate his impact, to guide his force, to tease him toward a climax—to no avail. He broke me down thrust by thrust, machinelike.

Missionary was the worst, and ultimately, the cause of my failure. He wanted my ass elevated to him, and placed pillows beneath it so he could grip my hips just so as he slammed his rhythm to liquid notes.

"Feels so fucking good," he said. "I could fuck you all night long."

It was 11:00 p.m.

In the end, I succumbed to the battering-ram on my bladder. I had to ask him to stop. No one, no one, no one had ever made me tap out before. It had been a point of pride. Now something I can no longer say. The shame.

He let me recover for—perhaps?—three minutes. Then he said, "I'm getting close. I need to nut." He hauled me back into position by my legs and pounded my sore cunt with rising speed and force. I concentrated solely on trying to contract in rhythm with his outstroke, to bring him to the end, fighting through the pain. At last he groaned, and powerfully shuddered, and though I could not feel the pulses, I could sense the heat of his breeding of me.

I can take some solace that at least I succeeded in taking him to completion. I did not fail him utterly, although he was quite serious about fucking me all night. He would have done.

The third day after I returned home from Atlanta, he sent me an image on my phone:

The moment I saw it I knew that I would have a chance to redeem myself, to clear this shame. No one had ever labeled me a Jack of Spades before. Though I have no race fetish or preference, I could see now that he had been pleased in spite of my failure.

There will be another trip to Atlanta.

Third time's the charm.