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
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 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—
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?
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.
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?
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.
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.”
“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
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,)
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……
Earlier this week I watched a clip from (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xi_27bpIb30) Patrick Stewart (Star Trek, right? Sorry, not my thing) speaking at Amnesty International about violence towards women. It was a good speech, made by a man who seems lovely. Feel free to leave here and go watch and listen.
Of course I hope you come back.
The speech threw me into a funk. I had just zipped my latest manuscript off to the editors, with several scenes of rough sex, bottom warming, and general using of physical force at times of emotional duress. No one, I thought, who knows me well outside of this community of like minded perverts would believe I wrote those books.
But I did.
I loved them.
Some of you loved them.
Even if you didn’t love them, even if you would rather go without ttyd* than read, you too probably lay awake at nights, occasionally wondering: what the heck is wrong with me? I am a strong, independent, successful woman. Why do I yearn for such events?
Or maybe: I’m a strong man, sure, but I love an independent, successful woman, so why is it I yearn to upend her over my knee and remove my belt?
Feel free to flip your sexual orientation and position in the power transfer……Anyone can spank anyone (unless: someone says no) as far as I’m concerned.
As usual, after several days of thought, and some kicking around with others, I end up in the usual place:
Location A: Saoirse, roughly, translate to “Freedom”
Roghan, equally roughly, translates to : “Choice”
That’s why I chose the Alias** I did. Freedom of Choice is the difference bewteen the Neanderthal Age, misogeny, patriarcy etc and ttwd.
Location B: Find the theory/explanation of your choice.
Safe. Sane. Consensual.
So the answwer to the Usual Question (See Title) is:
No. I’m a Spanko.
(Sorry. Couldn’t resist.)
(ps: Consensual eliminates anyone under age, intoxicated, unconscious, under your real world power –ok–that’s gets really tricky once you are doing ttyd-YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN!, or doesn’t speak your language. This protects animals as well as people who don’t speak the same language as you.)
* that thing we do/ that thing you do
** My apologies to the talented actress with a like name. I have no idea where she stands on these issues. (I don’t want to know either)
Just finished reading Caitlin’s Conspiracies by Mariella Starr. I’m not sure if I’ve read anything by her before or not. (This is NOT a comment on her as an author– but me as a woman experiencing an overcrowded hard drive, i.e. my brain 🙂 Anyhow, I really enjoyed this book. The length is great- it’s novel length, and well written, mandatory for a serious reader of fiction, not only a spanking fan. There is a well devleoped plot guiding the storyline, not just episodic spanking/sex. Granted, I like a well done scene with discipline and/or sex as much as the next person, and perhaps more! But I really look for a novel, a story, a romance. Otherwise, it’s porn. There’s nothing wrong if you enjoy porn. I don’t. Probably because I’m an avid reader; my brain is my most developed sex organ.
Caitlin is a strong, self sufficient young woman who has been living under the radar for several years after fleeing the WITSEC program where she’d been placed to protect her from the backlash of a murder trial. (Whoah! Just read that sentence without stopping for breath.) While in WITSEC she fell hard for an agent, Chase, but knew they had no future. In spite of hot sex, he’d told Caitlin he believed in dominance, and the concept didn’t interest her. I enjoyed reading about a heroine who is deeply invested in a man and yet able to walk away because the fit was wrong. Caitlin left WITSEC when the organization seemed determined to help the bad guys find her and lost her hard earned money. Now, doing a favor for a friend on behalf of her beloved horses, Caitlin slips up and her image hits national TV. Chase is on her trail before she knows it. The rest of the story is the inevitable clash between these two intelligent people, the battle between the Good Guys and the Bad Guys and an intriguing glimpse into multigenerational domestic discipline.
……….Caitlin ignored compliment. “I repeat, what are you doing here? I’m not in the program
“That’s why I’m here, you idiot,” Chase exclaimed. “I’m trying to save your life!”
“I’ll save my life,” Caitlin said steadily. “I’ve done it before, I’ll do it now.”
“No,” Chase said shaking his head and advancing on her. “I’m here, and I’m reclaiming
what should have been mine for a long time.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Caitlin demanded.
“I don’t like women swearing,” Chase said softly, dangerously. “I especially don’t like
my woman swearing.”
“You’ve gone fucking crazy,” Caitlin exclaimed. “I haven’t seen you in five years, and I
am certainly not your woman.”
“You’re mine,” Chase said stepping around her and hooking his arm around her torso and
picking her up off the floor………from Caitlin’s Conspiracies By Mariellla Starr
Very interesting to me, is the fact that Caitlin never completely buys in to the whole DD philosophy. I think this is very unusual for DD literature. (Somewhere a Stodgy Professor of Literature is having heart failure over the phrase ‘DD Literature’! Maybe this strict academician will give me a hard spanking…..) Not that Caitlin is an unwilling victim–Throughout the story it becomes clear Chase not only loves Caitlin but respects her independence and recognizes her strengths. Caitlin loves Chase and by the end of their story, while not being a keen proponent of the practise of domestic discipline, comes to see the men are not all overbearing Neanderthals who have to always be right. She stays with Chase, and accepts his philosophy because she loves him and doesn’t want to live without him.
Go on–it’s $4.99 at Blushing Books. Read it. Let me know what you think !