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!

Onions and Roadways

I regularly read the blog written by green girl. I enjoy it. green girl always makes me think.  Currently gg is wrestling with  questions about what she can give up and what she wants to grab back and clutch with both hands.  At some point gg turned over authority in their relationship to her husband. Almost immediately, after beginning a power exchange relationship, a person begins to obsess about what submission means. It seems pretty cut and dried– for about ten minutes.

If you are like me, an independent; competent woman; perhaps used to functioning and performing at a high level successfully, you are determined to do this submission business RIGHT.  You filter everything through the lens of submission.  Soon you drive yourself crazy.

We Can Do It! Rosie the Riveter

Submission at the level of controlling ones behavior seems obvious enough. The dominant says “Do this.” or “Don’t do that.”  But for the person starting out, a host of questions soon arises.  Like: Right now? Always? What if the dominant isn’t around? Does it count if the dominant doesn’t  notice? What if…..A) There’s a hurricane  B) Someone points a gun at my head   C) It’s the Rapture or D) All of the above

Sooner or later most dominants include levels of obedience and compliance that are open to subjective interpretation. Nuances of tone, facial expression, hand gestures and major muscle motions begin to come into play.

(p.s. Their interpretation wins.)

The dominants are also going through this process — from the other end.  They have to pass everything through the opposite lens: Was there a need for dominance? Was that dominant enough?  Did I say that was forbidden? Do I have to punish every time? What if my submissive is sick? PMS-ing? In labor? Was just fired? What if I was wrong?


And the smart ones eventually realize another problem:  the submissive has gotten  fed up with the paddling and is flying below the radar.  Has gone underground. Smiling, polite, obedient. All the while thinking: You flaming ——–. Or, maybe, just off in a quiet interior space somewhere, where the dominant isn’t allowed.  This tends to be labeled distancing, and is usually outlawed too.

After a period of some success, some failure, lots of talk, some unpleasant times OTK or NIC (nose in corner-I just made that up…..:)  ) both dominant and submissive will feel like they have arrived.  They got this!

No they don’t.

It’s inevitable.

As long as the two of you are breathing, and dancing this dance, you will continue changing, growing.

Submission and dominance will continue to morph.

I’ve read this in other blogs-and I told gg in my comment–this business is about layers. This dance is  like an onion. We peel one layer:  -Thou shalt not say ‘whatever’ and find another-Thou shalt not roll your eyes.

DSCN8106 DSCN8138 DSCN8179

I decided today, as I drove to an appointment and things got quiet in my mind, that I was wrong.

It’s not an onion. Sooner or later, if you stick to peeling–the onion is gone. You’ve removed all the layers and it no longer exists.

ttwd is a road.

Always  under construction.

It’s a freeway.


It’s a pitted, dirt track, a washboard.


There are hills, valleys, detours, roadblocks, rest areas, bridges out,  speed traps, and tolls.

13165434931905329076Bridge%20Out%20Sign_svg_medStreet_Road_Sign_Give_Wayrest_area1316548710139997299Detour%20Ahead%20Sign_svg_meddivided_road hill

It doesn’t end unless you quit.


And even then,

as some of us can attest,

it’s still out there.


Sitting Still for a Moment–

–for the first time in a very long while.

Today I did laundry (2 loads) and made the bed. I opened all the mail and balanced the checkbook.  I ran a few places where errands demanded  and did some of the work that keeps money flowing in. But I am also reading blogs, and writing.  It’s been a long time.

Thank you  for the amazing support!

I swear I have felt it at my back when I was about to teeter over.

Because the problem is most immediately my child’s, I hesitate to give too many details and intrude on her privacy.

Suffice it to say that for the past month I have raced, galloped, crawled–clawed– my way through foreign territory.  As a parent I expected to deal with mumps, chicken pox, colds, pneumonia, mono, horrible behavior, temper tantrums, drug experimentation, horribly uncomfortable moments– you struggle to keep your face serious while you deliver a short, terse lecture on appropriate behavior in school, demonstrate how to insert a tampon or don a condom, challenge the school board because there is not one single person of color in the school system–except the janitor.  There’s the moment when you realize your daughter really should be allowed to play with Barbies even though you would prefer to let the Rottweilers eat the damn things.  And the moment your son decides to marry Barbie.

I never dreamed I  would face cancer.  I wasn’t prepared for this job.


I like to be prepared.

This challenges EVERYTHING that is hard for me.

Security/Money: How the HELL will we pay for this?

Pride: I have to ask for help.

Even worse: I NEED help

Independence:  I have to allow help.

Faith: The world will be safe again.

Submission-to everything!

Procrastination–my greatest character defect absolutely can not be allowed to sneak in.  There are too many balls in the air.

Trust: If I had thought this could happen, would happen, I’d picture myself researching carefully, conducting interviews, analyzing the  literature, searching references for the perfect doctor, the perfect method of treatment. Instead, I trusted the pediatrician I picked years ago to do her job, resulting in  one month from niggling concern to first treatment.

There’s more, but you get the picture.  I’m frightened. I’m functioning.  I’m feeling. I’m asking for what I need.

Supposedly we are dealing with a very treatable disease with expected positive outcomes and a phenomenal recovery rate, and very small likelihood of re occurrence.  But she has 58 days of treatment hell ahead of her and I desperately need your good wishes.

Your HoH is Wrong Part III: True North

I’m not quite done yet.

Your HoH  will be wrong.  Any authority can be.

Will be.

Take a look at the long view.     Don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater.


If you grow up in circumstances where authority can’t be trusted, rot creeps into your soul and giving way to authority is risky business.

Being an authority figure-of any sorts-is a responsibility not to be taken lightly. When–not if–you screw up, you hurt people. If you really screw it up, you can hurt them in their core.

If you grew up scarred, and you’re lucky, you learn to take care of yourself. You learn to recognize the false.

The sad part of this success story is– it becomes very hard to trust anyone completely. You might do a great job of faking it, but deep inside you know it’s your job to take care of yourself.
And it is your job.

But when you submit to authority, you should be able to trust your long term safety, your long term growth, your long term best interests are in good hands.

Your HoH can be, will be wrong.

Take a look at the long view.

It’s ironic, to be me, giving way.  And at times, it is also frightening.

“You trust him, right?”  A man in an on line forum asked me. “To know what’s best for you?”

I was dumbfounded.  Why would I do that?  Could I do that?

SHOULD I do that?

Eventually, I was able to answer: “Yes. I do.”

I spent much of my adult life helping wounded people learn to stand up and walk away from authority figures who didn’t  have their best interests at heart. I didn’t do this because I’m a nice person.  I was learning  to walk away myself,  by watching all of you who did it at my urging and with my support.

I still have to walk away, occasionally.

Sometimes the people you give the most power to, the people you love the most, reveal themselves in a split second. You don’t want to believe your eyes. You don’t want to listen to your instincts. You mutter the party line often enough in your head and you forget you saw that person, stark naked, for that brief, split fraction in time.
Well, you did.

Trust yourself. You know more than you think you do.
If you came from that background-however nice it may have looked and even felt on the surface–doubting your instincts was an important tool they used to keep you fooled.

Are you always making excuses for your HoH?

Does your soul ache?


Trust your guts.
Walk away.

Your HoH can be, will be wrong.

Take a look at the long view.

Are you cherished? Encouraged? Supported? Caught safe in joyful strong arms as you come down?  Is your HoH working as hard as you are? Is there joy?

                                        Then take the long view. Enjoy.

He’s Wrong! Very, very wrong!

Sometime the HoH is wrong.


I get it.


Wrong (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Let’s add insult to injury:  the HoH  punishes you.

Now what?

Is it over? Does he/she turn in their badge?

Or do you let them keep it while feeling secretly superior?

Here’s the thing:  Authority comes from somewhere.  (I want to say up front this is not meant to be the seminal discourse on authority.  I’m not going to look up definitions.  This is me, thinking out loud.) (Maybe my nose was in a corner at the time.)

Some of us are either born with an innate air of authority or we develop it. But even that kind of authority has to be recognized before the Innately Gifted One can effectively use his/her  authority.  You can wander around feeling authoritative but it won’t don’t you any good if no one recognizes it.

We recognize authority, we bow down to it, submit, because we have to.

For one reason or another.

Norse marauders were acknowledged as authority because they had huge swords and could kick your ass.

Ms. Monroe, your first grade teacher, was recognized because another authority figure–your mom– told you that not only could Ms. Monroe kick your butt, but Mom would do it again when you got home.

Maybe you grew to really like Ms. Monroe because she didn’t make fun of you for crying when your mom left and you wanted to please her. At that moment. wanting her approval also gave her authority.

Maybe Ms. Monroe had a look that turned your stomach upside down and made you want to run screaming after your mother. Your fear was an instinctive recognition to her authority, and your powerlessness,  as well as the authority the school–and much more important in those years–your mother–gave the wicked witch.

Maybe Ms. Monroe was a total idiot who spent her day tweeting.  You followed whatever rules she enforced because of the authority she wielded.

At times, Ms Monroe was wrong!

She thought you stuck the pencil in Jeremy’s nose.  Bobbie did.

You cried. You argued. You- -whatever.

You didn’t get to say “I’m transferring to another class.”

OK. Maybe Ms. Monroe was a total sadistic meanie and your parents did have you moved.  That’s because some other authority interceded on your behalf.  NOT because you snatched up your Power Rangers lunchbox and left the room.

Maybe Ms. Monroe really was sadistic and talked all the kids into calling one poor kid horrible names.  You didn’t like it.  You wouldn’t do it.  Ms. Monroe kept you in from recess. She told the other kids to call you terrible names.  She told the other kids they had extra homework and it was your fault.  You stood strong and refused to knuckle under despite all hell breaking over your head.

You had your own internal authority you decided was the boss of you, not Ms. Monroe,nor even your Mom if she took Monroe’s side.

By the way, this means you’re a courageous moral human and I’d like to be your friend.  I also wish you’d run for office, but I understand why you wouldn’t want to.

I’ve had a lot of fun with Ms. Monroe and could go on, but you get my point.

And there is an abundance of figures in our lives we acknowledge as authority for one reason or another. Religious.  Law Officers. Government. Bosses. Pushy friends. Parents. Forces of nature. Culture. And for whatever reason we give the authority, we often have in our minds an idea we could refuse to submit if we chose.

We quit our job.

We say goodbye to a friend.

We move to another country.

We live in the woods in a bunker in —a less heavily populated state.

But most of us-

those of us with working emotional intelligence that allows us to be productive and happy,

do not snatch authority away the second we don’t like what the authority is doing.

And depending on the tolerance of the authority we don’t hurl abuse, throw china, jut our chin, cock our hip, stick out our tongue and say: make me.

When I was 18 a State Patrolman pulled me over. I was having too good of a time in a sports car. He suggested while the weather was clear and the road basically empty, I shouldn’t continue to travel at speeds upwards of 80 mph.

I nodded politely.

And when I pulled back on the road -because I’d had a fight with my boyfriend, a lousy day at work,  hated school, despised my parents and had no idea what to do with my life,  I deliberately accelerated to the limits that baby could go.

That baby- was the pride of  my friend Brian’s Voc Ed Auto Mechanics Class.

( I stole this picture from :

Sticking my tongue out that time cost me $300 dollars. And that was in 1978, folks– when $300 was not easy to come by.

I was an ass.

I got a lot smarter.

I told you- I hardly even think the word asshole anymore.