The Love Whimpers of Slaves

This next entry is from the fuck slave "Claudia" and is dated January 18, 1845. It is translated from her original French and is noteworthy from an historical perspective because she speaks of a steel collar.  Red Bastille slaves always wore leather ones. So either her Master collared her before bringing her to the Red Bastille, or she was singled out for some hitherto unknown reason.


I get weak when he draws me into his arms.  His love encircles me.  His command wraps around my heart like the steel collar around my throat.  Thus do I stand in front of him, head bowed with humility.  I am made for him. My body was created for his use.  It is his love that brought me to this world of stone and blood and iron.  His will that enslaves me.  His demands that make me quake with fear and longing.

His lust that slays me.

I get weak when he calls my name, his voice booming among the rafters. I run to him and fall to my knees. He has called. I have come.  He is Master. I am slave. He is man. I am slave. He is everything.

I am slave.

I get weak when he strips the clothes from my trembling body and makes me eat from his hand.  I walk behind him for he must always go first in the world.  He lifts a single finger and I fly into his arms, my heart singing with joy.  He smiles at me and I melt.  He touches my hair and I weep.  He kisses me and I burn.

I sleep with my hands tied behind my back. Thus is my body free and open for use.  Often does he throw my legs apart and mount his helpless slut.  His love is fierce.  I am there for pleasure.  I cannot meet his eyes.  He is too much a man and I am too much a slave.  I lay bruised and broken, yet wanting more. He knows what I crave. He knows I want him to shatter my boundaries and grind me into pulp beneath his heel. I beg for the lash.  I want my naked body to be smashed into the floor as he loves me hard.  

I get weak when he runs his hands over my body.  The tender skin flutters like warm paper under his palm. He sees this. Nothing escapes his notice.  I am a girl. He owns me. He knows his slave, understands her body, understands her needs even more than she does. I trust my Master. I must trust him, for what is life without him? What is life without slavery?  Without the whip and the collar and the passion?

I finger the cold steel around my neck and feel the sexual heat rise like a flame in my body. I ache for him. I ache for his attention. I ache for his slap. I ache for his brutal strength unleashed against my soft body.  I ache for his terrible love.  I ache, ache, ache.

I am so weak. I am so weak. Woman. Slave. Vulnerable little fuck animal. My head swims. I cannot concentrate. I want him to call me. Only then can the world exist. Only then will I be complete. Only then may I serve.

Slave and slut and whore. I am all of these for you, Master.  I am your woman.  I am weak.  Despise me, then, for my weakness -- for only then can I truly live. Punish me because I am  weak. Tie me up and spank me because I am weak. Rape me because I am weak. Degrade me because I am weak. Slap me and make me crawl and beg and moan for your touch because I am weak. Force your sex down my throat because I am weak. Split my body apart because I am weak. Spray your hot fuck on my breasts and make me lick it from your fingers because I am weak. 

I wait for you. I have little choice. I must wait until you call. I cannot do anything else, being a slave. Being a woman. Being your whore. I wait. I am weak and I wait. Call for me, I beg you I am too weak to wait.

I need you now. I want your love and I want your power hear your slave's heart crush it in your fist so I can melt in your cruel sperm I am weak I love you.

I love you.