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April 2018
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Handwritten Notes

A small collection of my Handwritten Notes

When I was a girl, from adolescence through my late teens, I had Pen Pals. Long gone is the hobby and fashion to write to others in far away places, and learn about other cultures.  The added side benefit was the skill I gained, being able to compose a letter worth reading.

It was a part of my growing up. Thank you notes, bread and butter letters and keeping in touch with family, in other states, were all expected of a well-bred young lady, of my day. 

Now, as the quality of my handwriting goes steadily down hill, I miss the pleasure I got from putting pen to paper. When I was looking through archived essays, I found a file tittled, Hand Written Notes. 

Odd, I don’t remember composing them, but there they are, in black and white.

I’ve decided to share some of them, from time to time, under this parent page. If you enjoy them, please drop a comment.


Dear Louis

A hand- written note without a stamp, or return address.

Dear Louis,

I have noticed you from my kitchen window, always alone and looking so forlorn. You never have any visitors and reading seems to be the only pleasurable activity you have. No sports, no parties and never a girlfriend who stays over. Perhaps it is because you are from another culture, and you can’t seem to find your place.

It is difficult to see a young man, studying like his life depended on it, and never leaving the Frat House. That is the reason I am sending you this note. Living across the street from college students has been very helpful throughout the years, and I am looking to hire a handy boy, and you might fit the bill.

When I called to ask your name, yesterday I was struck at how hard it must be, despite near perfect English, to fit into a new culture. Do come visit, we’ll have a nice cup of tea. You can tell me what your country is like, and I will tell you about mine. I have cookies baking as you read this, so put on your best smile, and come help your neighbor Lady, put up a shelf.

Best Wishes,
Miss Vivian



The Last Rose of Summer

Dearest Pet,

I feel your sadness across the miles and wish I was there, close by your side. Thank you for representing me on this sad day, agreeing to speak for me, was very kind. I have chosen a poem by Thomas Moore for you to recite, when you find the proper moment.

‘Tis the last rose of summer

Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
To give sigh for sigh.

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter,
Thy leaves o’er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
From Love’s shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit,
This bleak world alone?

Remember, when you need me most, I will be there in spirit, holding your hand and keeping you in my heart.




The Remorseful Submissive

Or …
Be Careful Of What You Wish For

He dreams about it. Reads about it. Fantasizes about it. He agonizes over it and all of the porn he views – is about it. He’s known what he is for many years, and he can’t tell anyone about it. He is weary of fighting his nature alone, isolated in his self-imposed prison of shame. His true nature simmers in the background, easy to keep on low while the alpha male runs his daily life. Integrity and a sharp focus on work,  keep the cravings at bay – till opportunity knocks.

And he comes to me.

He picks up the phone to unburden his fevered desires at the feet of someone he trusts, someone who knows him better than he does himself. Eager to please, he implores to be pushed – to be directed to that place that is always,  just out of his reach. He revels in his well-planned freedom, making a declaration to his true nature, and tossing caution to the wind –  commits to use this time to wallow in servitude. To others, it may seem selfish, but to a wise woman, it is merely the impetus to keep a “real life” balanced and calm.

And he comes to me.

He opens himself up, shoves the old guilt to side and pushes his limits, performing acts that both humiliate and excite him in concert. When at last he gets his fill of what he has hungered  after,  for far too long –  the old doubts drift back. Laying in his lonely hotel room, the feelings of satisfaction and peace slowly begin to morph into painful circles of  guilt.

He negates the pledge he made to himself and slides the yearnings of his submissive side to the back burner. Eventually, as it has so many times before – he will go in search of the thrilling manipulations he just experienced, safely under the control of an authentic Fem Dom.

And he will come to me once again.



The Servant’s Heart

Dear Pet,

We trip across thresholds in life, certain we will remember, the next time we cross it, we’ll step clear of the momentary imbalance. But being human, we forget eventually, and go flying, ass over teacups, and say to ourselves – Don’t do that again!

I remembered this essay I wrote a long time ago, from the last time I forgot my true nature, and tripped myself up. It was a happy ending, of course – there should be no other kinds.

The Servant’s Heart

It is a special human, who has a servant’s heart. Male or female, sissy, gay or straight, Top or bottom, Mistress or slave – no matter the nature, a true servant’s heart will shine through.

Raised in 50’s middle class privilege, girls of my time were groomed to be a good hostess, home chef, wife and Mother. Fine dining, good music, fun parties and dancing filled my early life, and graciousness was far more esteemed, than what famous name purse you carried.

Strong maternal forces guided us, teaching us everything from table manners, to how to properly address, hired help and servants. It is that long ago training that made me who I am today, a well balanced human, with confidence to lead others, using respect, knowing will be returned in kind.

Have you have that moment yet, when you know I’m real?  Can you feel my servant’s heart? Does the dichotomy confuse you?

Do not mistake it as weakness. Learn from it, emulate it, but please never sully it, with monetary temptations, for you will lose the very heart of what makes me tick.

Yours truly,

Miss Vivian