Outside My Culture.

A friend asked what led me to write about Native Americans/First Peoples (Getting It Right).

Getting It Right is about a lot of things: love, addiction, maturity, raising children, fixing broken relationships, doing your part for community,  the ache of belonging nowhere. The main couple have that fiery, primal, sexual tension that exists for some, so throw ttwd in the mix. Some of the characters were raised on a reservation, as foster children. Some have Native ancestry. Two are 100 % Native People.  The book, a Contemporary Romance, is set in Western US of A.  There you go-outside my culture.

I worried about publishing it. I’m no scholar, no expert.

All my life I’ve been fascinated by Native People, in this and other countries.  I actually read Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee when the book came out. I was a kid and the book was 487 pages long.

In those days, I was a Horse Girl. (You can have the boys!)  All I wanted was a horse.  I had a  deep love for a paint mare who just somehow existed in a field nearby (Yes.We lived in NoWhere’s Ville). There was no barn. No house. No one ever seemed to be there, to care for her. I carried hay to her in the winter.  And snuck her apples and carrots from our house (which was courting death in our family).

Eventually she let me sit on her back.

When I was in the 8th grade I wanted to run away and join the AIM occupation at Wounded Knee.  Seriously.

I mean, come on! Horses.


Extremely good looking men. (I was noticing, by then)

And a cause that stirred my soul.

I did research (not easy in those days before the Internet).

In the end, I didn’t run away.  For all the things I lacked at the time, and there were many, I was still privileged– a white child with a family. Working parents.  Educated parents.  It wasn’t a good thing to drop out of school.

The hard truth:  one more young teen wouldn’t have helped anyone there, and not having an education wouldn’t have done me any good once the excitement was over.

I could analyze this teenage fantasy/life-long fascination, but I’d rather tell you a story.

When I was in my late twenties I’d saved enough money to travel out west. I loved it. I was gone for several months, a hiatus before starting a new job.  I  drove an old Toyota Tercel, crammed with backpacking gear, books, and writing materials (I had an early Apple computer in my trunk).

Life was good.  Every now and then I’d stay at a hotel and get a shower, call home, write checks to pay bills.  Most of the time, I drove back roads with no idea where I was. I was exploring.  God, I was happy! Fearless.  Maybe stupid.  Who knows. But I tell you, I met with nothing but kindness wherever I went and collected stories and memories that still shine, bright light in my memory.

Ten Sleep Canyon.

One afternoon  I  became aware of a heavy sadness, a crushing darkness, descending. In me.  Eventually I was blind from tears I had no words for. I stopped the car and fell out, lying on the ground.  Sounds rang in my ears. Indecipherable voices and crying out.  I lay for a long time.

The tone changed. A soft, comforting sound-aimed not at me, but all around. And finally, quiet.  I pushed to my knees, placed my palms on the ground and leaned in, kissing the damp where my face had lain.  As I crawled to the car, wind brushed my hair like soft fingers.

Well into a career in Mental Health,  I knew all about hallucinations and  the like. But I didn’t bother stopping at the nearest cluster of buildings and asking directions to a Psych Ward. I had no idea where I was. But I knew I’d been at the scene of a horrendous tragedy.

Later I drove past a sign: Leaving Wounded Knee.

We are all linked.

We are all people. We have all come from different lands, different traditions.  These days, peoples are blending as never before, and in the end, I think this is good. . The characters in Getting it Right are not meant to be studies in Native Peoples.  They are just people who have been living in my head. For the most part, they’re the outcasts, the little-of-this and little-of- that. They found acceptance and love among people who actually had the least, and yet gave their hearts. And that…. well, I live in that circle.


If you’d like to read great Romance, written by a white woman who really knows her stuff: Kathleen Eagle.

Ms. Eagle lives with her husband of 35 years, a Lakota Sioux.  I love her books.  Check out The Complete Eagle here:

Caveat:  There is no ‘funny’ business with  dominance–but I love these books. You might too!

Oh Crap

For the past six months I have been champing at the bit for Book #3 to hit the On Line Stores. Now I have a tentative publication date, and I’m afraid I’ll throw up.


I had a lot of fun writing Getting It Right.

I combined some of my favorite things:  Independent women busy saving the world.  Wounded children.  Dogs.

Horses.  A rooster with one leg.

(To quote Walker- my hero- upon sighting the rooster: “No idea how that worked. Didn’t care.”)

An alpha male toting tons of baggage who steps up.

Photo by catnap300

(Apologies to Mr. Wirth-who may not have any baggage and didn’t volunteer to star in my novel…..)

I was sure it was the best book I’d written.

It probably was.

Now, 6 months later I’m keenly aware of it’s shortcomings.


I’ll keep you posted.

Now I’m gonna go write something else
RebeccaLewis_May2014_bored-woman-keyboard-sad-Shutterstockshutterstock image



Huge Penises, Tight Pussys and Orgasms the First Time

Faithful readers know I need a dose of realism in a book. Never mind that I’m reading fiction. It’s a failing of mine.  When the hero wallops a woman he’s just met, I’d like to be easy- going enough to enjoy myself.

I can’t.

I want to know why she doesn’t clobber him, knock him to the ground and stomp the heck out of him.   Before making a beeline to the police station.

Here’s another couple of problems I have:

The hero has an immense penis.

In fact, his penis is so big, the dude must take great care not to hurt our heroine as he maneuvers his way to the locus of her femininity.  She, by the way, is  initially thrilled by the size when she first catches sight of the member (Bobbing free of the underwear of choice). As he inserts himself, however, she has a moment of discomfort. Then she is swept away by passion and urges him to get on with it

http://images.wikia.com/orchids/en/images/e/ed/Dracula_brangeri.jpg    It being the insertion of his  penis into her extremely tight pussy.  You see, she has spent hours, daily, on her Kegel exercises. Also, (and this is important) her feminine folds are tight because she hasn’t had sex in a very long time. (Apparently she also hasn’t given birth) (It’s fine the hero sets out to redden her bottom the second he sets eyes on her, but don’t think for a minute the woman is a wench, enjoying sex on a regular basis). It’s been a long time, a very long time, so it hurts. A bit. Driving our hero to the edge of orgasm.

Which brings us to the next thing jolting me from my reader trance: Our heroine has the best orgasm she’s  ever had. Usually several. With a man who has never touched her before.  Because, of course, he is a master of orgasm having spent years studying with Geishas in Tibet.  (I know. The Geishas  aren’t really in Tibet. Focus on the important, will ya?)

Many readers dislike “Purple Prose”. In case you aren’t familiar with the term, here’s an example:

Duke’s eyes roamed, starved lions, over the swollen lips of her heaving, molten core.


That’s not a very good example. Apparently, not only do I fail to appreciate purple prose, I’m can’t write it. My husband, bless his heart, occasionally spouts it into my ear. To make me laugh hysterically. NOT in an effort to seduce me. (Seducing me is very easy. All he has to do is flash that look.)



Are other readers annoyed  by these things?  When I read them I’m aware of niggling irritation, just enough to jostle me out of Complete Reader Nirvana.

It’s not size, people. It’s what you do with what you have. We know this.

I suspect my pussy isn’t tight as a–a what ? Drum? Glove? ( See? Not good at purple prose.)  I’ve delivered children, people. VAGINALLY.  And yes. When traffic comes to a complete stop on a highway I do kegels. After I’ve checked my messages.  And e-mail. Facebook.

Played DOGE 2048 until my brain is bleeding.

Cleaned out my purse.

The glove compartment.

Anything within reach of my hand.

I like to hold the belief I still give Him a lot of sexual pleasure. When the heroines all have teeny tiny pussys that cause Duke  to wince, my eyes roll.

Truth: I become insecure.  I calculate the last time I did vagina tightening exercises.

I know. My problem. Still…..I don’t want any woman to think about kegels in the middle of a hot sex scene.

I have always enjoyed sex. Even BEFORE I had sex with anyone other than myself.

Listen:  I’ve had orgasms.

Sometimes I’ve enjoyed myself considerably.

Occasionally I THOUGHT I’d  had an orgasm.

     Every now and then I had an orgasm that came close to being better than the ones I give myself.

Once HE really hit his stride, I’ve enjoyed regular orgasms, definitely better than any I can produce.

I’ve never had an orgasm with a man I just met.  My informal, totally unscientific poll, revealed I am not alone in this tragic circumstance.

What about you?

It’s something.

I’m determined to get back to writing here, re connecting with the community.  I write posts, and press save because they are, in the end, too revealing of my current concerns: Crazed family members. Aging parents.  Grown Children. Not enough sex. Untrained, poorly mannered puppy (my fault).  Not enough sex.

Here’s something.

It’s a scene from my current Work In Progress.  It’s definitely longer than a blog post is supposed to be if I want people to read it.  Here’s what I want to know: Even to us spankos, or spankophiles (I’ve decided that is the term for someone who loves to read spanking fiction), is there a hint of danger?

over his knee (2)

Sigh. (picture me shaking my head in fond exasperation) Not that kind!

The real kind!

from: (Working Title) Jenna and Houston © by Saoirse Roghan

Carrie slumped against the wall. Eyes focused on the scene outside the window, she chewed on the corner of her lip, arms wrapped across her chest, hugging tightly. She heard Rick enter the adjacent bedroom. Her stomach did the weird little jump. She hadn’t closed the bathroom door, but she had pulled it almost shut. That would be a problem, although it did grant her time to move away from the window before she would be in his view. She rested her pelvis against the sink, and leaned far in, over the sink, until her face filled the mirror, close and large. Her eyes roamed her reflected face, while she reached for one of the fluffy cloths stacked on the shelf. Carrie wrenched the hot water on full with her other hand. Her face was splotchy from tears.

Rick pushed his way into the room. “Babe.” Voice light, but still authoritative, his palm came to rest heavy on her ass. Stomach jumping again, Carrie wriggled that ass, like this was all still a fun joke, and giggled, pushing her butt into his palm while she brought the hot cloth up to her face.

“You know I want the door open.”

“It was open, silly.”

“All the way.” He whispered in her ear. His hand lifted; her breath stopped, still, in the absence and anticipation. And there it was, his palm, hard, stinging.

“I hate peeing in public, Rick.” She said, her voice normal, pretending the smack hadn’t happened or if it did, was still The Game. She turned and tossed the damp cloth into the basket.

“They’re gone, now.” Rick tilted his head slightly toward the window. “Ms. Important actually got a police escort off the property. I’m not public, Miss.” He reached out and pull Carrie against his broad chest. He nuzzled at her neck.

“Umm.” Carrie moaned, sinking into his mass. Rick could be an ass. But he was soo hot. And the sex was amazing. It was a game, and she wanted to keep playing. For now.

“Let’s put you in the tub, sweet thing.” Rick moved past her, leaning over the tub and opening taps.

Carrie’s fingers grasped the bottom of her blouse, ready to pull it over her head instinctively. Lately there had been no hesitation from her when he issued his directions. But: Did she want a bath?

“Let me, sugar.” Rick pushed her hands down and his large fingers started working slowly at the top button. One finger brushed her breast. And this was why it would suck to stop. Every moment she was with the man weighed, supercharged with sexual energy. Nothing else existed. Or almost nothing. She still went to work, of course, and there were moments when she thought about spending time-more time- with her friends. But this: The heat.

Global warming, poverty, her cable bill.

All disappeared.

His hand, warm against her back, pulled her close and worked the snap of her bra. He set her back from him enough to bring his hand to her hip, and let his fingers slip down into her jeans.

The man bathed Carrie like a child, moving her passive body where he wanted it, working shampoo and then conditioner into her long hair, murmuring for her to sit forward and duck her chin so he could rinse. He had her stand, rosy, flushed, in the big tub with water lapping just below her knees, while he sharpened the straight razor on a strop that he kept on the wall near the tub. Slipping a palm around one calf he let her know he wanted her foot on the rim, and he prodded and arranged her until he had good access and began to use the razor on her Mons. He’d done it before, so Carrie no longer stood breathless in fear he’d slice some piece of her off by mistake. Worse that the actual wound, was picturing herself walking into the ER with a slice of her labia in a zip lok. The man knew his way around a pussy, even with a straight razor. She eyed the strop, lying now on the floor near his foot, uneasily.

Rick did the whole routine. towelling, patting her dry, anointing her warm body with scented oil. His fingers wandered, keeping her in a heightened state of arousal. Finally he stood behind her, his fingers rolling her nipples, his mouth hot at her ear. “Spread those legs a little, Sweet thing.”

One hand moved, releasing one swollen nipple, to slide down her tummy. He pulled her pelvis into his crotch. “Lift that sweet little butt into the air, Princess.” His teeth closed on the cord of her neck, sharp, for so brief a moment it might not have happened. “Now bend over and hold the rim.”

He liked to give her orders that were hard to follow. How the fuck could she bend over while he still had one of her nipples in his fingers? She tried to comply and was rewarded by his tightening fingers resisting her movement before he released the nipple. Of course, the sting of release was the worst part. But at this moment Carrie was more concerned about the strop.

“I am the luckiest man alive, Babe.” Rick murmured. His hands caressed her butt, and of course a finger or two grazed the lips of her vagina, swollen, throbbing. “You’re beautiful, and smart, and you have the kindest heart of any woman I know.” One hand remained on her ass, the other reached past her peripheral vision and grasped the bath brush. Shit.

Dipping the brush in the warm water of the tub, he swirled it around, brought it out and rested it next to her hands, water dripping from the bristles.

Carrie tried to giggle.

“And you trust me.” His voice went on. “With you.”

She did? But she gave a little shimmy of her ass. “Of course I do, Rick. You are the best lover I’ve ever had.”

He chuckled, and the brush moved from her view. “I’m the last lover you’ll have, Babe.” The brush, wood side down roamed her backside, her thighs, her calves. He tapped her breasts, hanging heavily down, ever so gently, and then moved it, still carefull, to her cheekbones and finally let it rest on her mouth.

“Kiss it, Miss.”

She did.

“Now hold on.” He whispered.

The bath brush came down forty times. Twenty on each cheek, the sting slowly increasing, deepening until it reached the maximum he felt appropriate. Carrie danced, whined, sobbed, but didn’t let go of the tub rim.

Rick’s voice sounded beneath the heat, the pain:  He didn’t accept her failure to keep the bathroom door wide open. He found it impossible to understand her inability  clearly and firmly say “no” to Jenna. Carrie had committed to dine with Rick tonight. She didn’t make it clear to Jenna. Thus, the fuss with the doorman  and police.

This was the game.

He used stuff from their real life in this way and it made the sex so hot it was almost unbearable at times.

The brush was hung up. Carrie moaned, deep from within. Not because the brush had stopped, as much as knowing she would get his cock next. She heard the wonderful sound of his zipper. Felt the harsh rasp of his jeans against her inflamed skin. Felt the slight dip of his knees, his hand slipping under, palming her stomach, yanking, boosting her up while he rammed himself inside her.

Rick was a generous, skillful lover. The entire evening had been foreplay, after all. And that was before the bath, the spanking, the wandering, knowing fingers, hands and lips. He used his cock to bring her close to orgasm and then shut her down.

“Don’t you dare come!”

He didn’t have to say anything more.

Carrie’s knees hit the floor and she opened her mouth wide, keening, moaning, her hands scrabbling at herself.

“Hands behind your back, Miss.”

Rick’s hand wound amidst her hair and then her neck, pulling her forward. His other hand stroked his swollen cock, moist from her juices, and then rubbed her lips with it. “Okay, Miss.”

He enjoyed oral too. So he was in no rush. He moved her head as he chose. Sometimes thrusting hard and deep and grunting in satisfaction as she gagged, choked, teared. He liked to caress the tip of his organ through her cheek, shoving hard against the inside of her mouth and fingering it like it was a marvel, a miracle.

And shit, as far as Carrie was concerned, it was. She longed to break free and release her hold on her wrists. It would not take much, at this point.

But she didn’t.

It was too damn good when he brought her.

And he always did. He almost withdraw completely, eyes fixed on her face, distorted now by anxiety his cock would leave, as well as the cock filing her face itself. He let go, shooting into her mouth, bringing his organ out so the last spurt hit her face. One corner of his mouth twitched in appreciation while she swallowed, and using her fingers, brought the come from her face to her mouth. He yanked her to her feet, locked an arm under her knees and lifted, holding her, heading back into the bedroom.

He tossed her on the bed and she froze there, while his eyes roamed her body. He reached and grasped her ankles and pulled her closer. He spread her wide, shoving her knees up and to the sides, and buried his face in her aching, begging, core. He would play here too. But eventually.

He’d order her to come.

from: Jenna and Houston © (Working Title) by Saoirse Roghan

Dominance,Religion and Sanity

Twenty years ago I wouldn’t have believed I could write stories about dominance in relationships.  Unless I had been kidnapped by aliens.  Who were holding burning sticks to the soles of my feet.

Here’s the funny place my mind went today:

I’m very busy, and somewhat (HAH!) stressed by my life.

There are things I have to do if I’d like to carry my weight in this relationship-keep money rolling in, perform my duties as Household Manager.

There are things I want to do if I’d like to be a human other people would care to know-express my love for people, participate in relationships, be present in relationships.

There are certainly things I ‘d like to do just because: have a manicure and pedicure, work out, take a nap, READ A BOOK.

There are long term projects, tackled by priority-meaning when they come due, which is NOT how I like to live my life.

There are things I’m driven to do it I want to fulfill my promise to myself, (i.e. remain sane)-write.

Frequently I find myself racing thru the day with a hard knot in my stomach.. What have I accomplished from the list?  What should I do next?  Wouldn’t it be better to chill out? If I decide to just chill out, am I being undisciplined?  Does it really make sense to live like this? Should I try to get a prescription for medical marijuana and just calm the fuck down?

I mutter the Serenity Prayer to myself.

Years ago I began to make an effort to effect the serenity prayer in my own life. Initially,  Mind you, initially I was deeply offended by the idea that anyone could suggest they weren’t in control of their universe. I was certainly in control of mine!   Once I got the concept, I found it very soothing.  So today I ran a mental check list of what I was in control of.  The list was still too long.

It would have been very comforting if Someone  (A Dominant, perhaps?) had spoken clearly and told me: Look. Here are the five things you need to do today. Anymore would be insane.  No you’re not being undisciplined to let go of the others.   And since I’ve decided these things for you, you won’t need any medical marijuana. No, you haven’t been kidnapped by aliens. You’ve grown, matured, your ideas about things have changed, so letting someone else be in control no longer feels like an absurd idea.

No one said anything (other than inside my head).

I was forced to continue wrestling with these questions, as well as The List.

Ah hah! I thought.  Here’s where it would be very handy to have Someone in charge.

Like a Head of Household, an Authority Figure (male or female, I don’t care, whatever floats your particular boat).


(Sorry, I really don’t mean to offend anyone here,)

a god.

I’m a spiritual person, but I’m not religious, so I don’t have handily prescribed edicts easily applied to my To DO List.  In fact, my To DO List is formed by my spiritual beliefs……and if I’m going to revamp them I’ll need to go to Nepal and meditate for a Very Long Time and consult with Wise people . (Or, I guess, go to a 12 Step meeting)

My Significant Other is currently having a Major Life Crisis and has Things To Do besides looking at my To Do List, making decisions about it, and assuring me that it is ok to leave a LOT of them for tomorrow.  In fact, because of the Major Life Crisis I am honor bound to uphold my portion of our Mutual To Do List

Is it just me? Can one draw a comparison between the two concepts (HoH and god)?

Is an HoH sort of like a mini god? Or your local, private god-figure? god representative?

I believe in this post I have broken all kinds of rules on how to draw readers to your blog and encourage people to read your books.



I feel much saner.

And I get to put a Big Blue Check Mark in the box in front of ‘WRITE’ for today……

Three Reasons to Read Rita Lawless

1) Reading is good for you. It stimulates braincells and makes you a more rounded person.

2) Rita Lawless has a new release: A Real Page Turner is just that: a spanking novel that’s a page turner.  There is mystery, character development, secondary characters, spanking, hot sex, humor.  The heroine is a real person, with a brain that works.  She is not, as we say in Romance Writing World: Too Stupid Too Live. She is a successful, small business owner struggling to increase her market share. The hero is alpha, with a sense of humor.  Did I mention spanking? Hot sex?

3) If you don’t read this someone may spank you. Or, if you’re a spanko, NOT!