Kay Jaybee Releases Knowing Her Place

Knowing Her Place

The Perfect Submissive Trilogy (Book 3)

Kay Jaybee

Miss Jess Sanders has come a long way since she first took the role of admin clerk and book keeper at The Fables Hotel in Oxford.

Her elevation to a position within Mrs Peters adult exclusive adult entertainment team on the fifth floor of the hotel took everyone by surprise- especially Jess herself.

Now, an experienced submissive, Jess has some decisions to make about her future- but first she needs to get home…

***

Kay Jaybee was awarded an Honouree Mention at the 2015 National Leather Association Awards (in the Pauline Reage Novel Category) for “Knowing Her Place”

***

Knowing Her Place Blurb:

Full of unanswered questions after her erotic fairytale experience at The Retreat in Scotland, Jess Sanders is desperate to return to her submissive position at the exclusive Fables Hotel in Oxfordshire.

Having been thwarted in his plans to keep Jess, The Retreat’s owner, David Proctor, isn’t willing to let her go without sending the so-called ‘perfect’ submissive on one final mission. Only if Jess succeeds in the task he sets her, will Proctor remove the collar of servitude he has locked around her neck.

With a list of five unfamiliar addresses to hand, Jess is placed in a car and driven away from The Retreat towards England. With no idea of what, or who, awaits her at the each location, all Jess can hope for is that the journey will eventually take her back to where she belongs.

To the fifth floor of the Fables Hotel, where Miss Jess Sanders truly knows her place.

 

Knowing Her Place Extract:

…Running her little finger along the outer edge of the collar for a second time, Jess fought back the constant reflex to choke. It was so tight. There was no way it could be cut free without damaging her skin.

David Proctor had forced Jess into his collar, declaring her his property unless she proved herself worthy of release. He was the only one with a key to the little silver padlock that held the tight band together at the front of her neck. Even if she did manage to prise the leather free somehow, as the car left the never-ending A9 that tracks the east side of Scotland and joined the motorway, Jess could hear Proctor’s warning words echo in her ears when she’d threatened to call Mrs Peters …

“If you call her, that collar is never coming off. There is only one key and I have it. And before you think it can be cut off, it can’t be done. Not without hurting you. Anyway, if you did get it cut off, you’d have failed, and part of you would always remain mine. I can’t see Mrs Peters liking that very much; can you?”

Jess hated that he was right. Her boss wouldn’t have liked it all. She tried to tell herself that Mrs Peters would come to her rescue – but she physically and mentally shrank back from wondering what the cost of making such a request of the Fables’ mistress would be.

Unbidden, her mind slipped from thoughts of her boss to Miss Sarah. She tried to ignore the increase in her pulse rate, and the automatic swell of her breasts that the image of the tall, slim, demanding dominatrix always caused. For a split second, while they’d been together at The Retreat, Jess had begun to hope Miss Sarah cared for her beyond the requirements of work.

Jess knew, although she would never have been foolish enough to say so out loud, that she had formed a strong emotional attachment to the woman who dominated her body day after day in the pursuit of other people’s pleasure. Sometimes she trusted that her personal feelings towards her mistress were genuine but, on other occasions, logical thought took over. Jess told herself, for the umpteenth time, as she looked out in the night, that she’d probably adopted some sort of warped Stockholm Syndrome feeling to Miss Sarah; like a victim falling for her kidnapper….

It had been Miss Sarah who Mrs Peters had ordered to train Jess when she’d first joined the team at Fables. A training which had included a vigorously kinky, and highly effective, exercise routine that gave Jess immense stamina; teaching her how to remain motionless for prolonged periods of time, and how to delay an orgasm for as long as humanly possible.

At first, Jess had been terrified of Miss Sarah. She’d suspected the dominatrix resented her arrival, especially when Mrs Peters began to refer to Jess as her “perfect submissive.” This was a title Jess now understood had been designed precisely to provoke her, and force her to work even harder for fear of not living up to her requirements. It had nothing to do with Mrs Peters thinking Jess was good at her job –although Jess hoped she did.

But she sent you away … Jess shook her head sharply. Mrs Peters couldn’t have known Proctor had planned to keep her. She couldn’t possibly have been in on this from the start. Her boss hadbeen conned by Proctor. They’d all been conned.

Trying to force away the paranoia that threatened to take hold as she sat, a prisoner in the back of an ostentatiously posh car, Jess attempted to reassure herself by recalling how many times Mrs Peters had stressed prior to their departure from Fables that she and Miss Sarah would be returning.

Only moments before they’d been taken away to Scotland, Jess had taken part in a mock-up of a most unusual version of Pin the Tail on the Donkey. It had been a rehearsal for a very adult birthday party that was to take place in just over a week’s time. The mere memory of what she’d gone through during the rehearsal made Jess’s pussy clench with desire. She longed to get back to Fables in time for the clients’ party – as Mrs Peters had promised she would.

Staring through the car window now, Jess searched her memories of her days at The Retreat for further reassurance that Mrs Peters had not betrayed her. On two separate occasions while they’d been in their bedroom in the castle, Miss Sarah had warned Jess to believe nothingProctor said. She’d told Jess that he would probably tell her Mrs Peters no longer wanted her at Fables; and that he would be lying.

That was exactly what had happened. But was it a lie? Jess couldn’t help letting doubt creep in as the night sky began to give way to the first glimmer of dawn. Why had Miss Sarah been allowed to go home and not her? Proctor had a submissive of his own. A girl called Alisha, who was more than willing to fulfil his every whim. He didn’t need Jess at all. This was pure spite.

Available from:

 

You can find all the buy links for The Fifth Floor (Book 1) and The Retreat (Book 2) here:

The Fifth Floorhttps://wp.me/P75ZDl-u9

The Retreathttps://wp.me/P75ZDl-10E

 

About Kay:

 

 

Kay Jaybee was named Best Erotica Writer of 2015 by the ETO

Kay received an honouree mention at the NLA Awards 2015 for excellence in BDSM
writing.

Kay Jaybee has over 180 erotica publications including, The Retreat- Book2: The Perfect Submissive Trilogy(KJBooks, 2018), Making Him Wait (Sinful Press, 2018), The Fifth Floor- Book1;The Perfect Submissive Trilogy(KJBooks, 2017), Wednesday on Thursday, (KDP, 2017), The Collector(KDP, 2016), A Sticky Situation(Xcite, 2013), Digging Deep, (Xcite 2013), Take Control, (1001 NightsPress, 2014), and Not Her Type(1001 NightsPress), 2013.

Details of all her short stories and other publications can be found at www.kayjaybee.me.uk

You can follow Kay on –

Twitter- https://twitter.com/kay_jaybee

Facebook -http://www.facebook.com/KayJaybeeAuthor

Goodreads- http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/3541958-kay-jaybee

Brit Babes Site- http://thebritbabes.blogspot.co.uk/p/kay-jaybee.html

Kay also writes contemporary romance and children’s picture books as Jenny Kane www.jennykane.co.uk  and historical fiction as Jennifer Ash www.jenniferash.co.uk

 

Concerto Chapter 9

Sorry that it’s taken me a bit longer to get the next chapter of Concerto to you. It’s been a wild couple of weeks. Because I’ve made you wait, I’ve put the link from the last chapter up at the top for continuity sake. The rest are at the end. Enjoy!

 

 

Chapter 9: Me, But Somebody Else

In the blink of an eye I was transported into the opulent music room, lit only by moonlight. I looked out through eyes that were not my own, I wore clothes that were uncomfortable and unfamiliar. On slippered feet, I approached the pianist from behind. His music was angry, violent, his fingers harsh on the keys. There was no one else in the room. “What you want can never be, you realize?” He spoke without looking away from the keyboard. “Your father will never let us be together, you must know this.”

“I don’t care what my father wants. I want you,” I said in a voice that was not my own. It was softer, more treble, like a bird singing – one you could listen to for hours.

“You don’t care because you’ve never gone hungry, never known what it’s like to live without. Do you suppose for even a moment your father will continue as my patron if I run away with his only daughter? Do you not think that he’ll use all of his power and influence to make sure no one else will do me the honor either?” The music stopped. He fisted his hands and brought them down hard against the keys.

“But you’re the best. You’re astonishing. It’s only a matter of time before you’ll be sought out to perform all over the world, and then you won’t need my father or anyone else.”

“But I do need your father now. One mistake, take one false step, and he’ll cast me aside as easily as he does anything else that makes him unhappy.”

“I don’t care. I love you.” I moved to stand close behind him and threw my arms around his neck. “I want you and no one else.” As he pushed back the bench, I took his face in my hands and kissed him, and I was her – this woman who loved him — but at the same time I wasn’t her. Still one thing was clear, he was my pianist – the same — as surely as night was dark. And the kiss he returned, the kiss that wasn’t for me, was offered with that familiar passion, the same sense of need and hunger.

At last he pulled away and held me at arm’s length. “Then we have to wait. We have to wait until the time is right, until I no longer am a beggar at the gate.”

With a flash of light, the scene changed, and we were naked, rolling and tumbling in a big curtained bed, and he was deep inside me, the roar of our breath and our passion drowning out the storm.

“I shouldn’t have come, Felicity.” I heard his voice from far away. “You shouldn’t have invited me here of all places. Don’t you realize what we’ve done? We should have waited.”

“I’m tired of waiting.” Once again the bird like voice came from my lips. “Take me with you. Take me with you my love, and we will find a way.”

“We’ll find a way. Just take me with you, and we’ll find a way.”  I came back to myself wet and warm and sitting between the pianist’s legs in the big claw footed tub. I was leaning back against his bare chest, his arms wrapped tightly around me. “What happened,” I managed through a throat that felt like I’d eaten sand.

“You followed me into the storm. You fell,” came the clipped reply.

For a moment I sat silent, the heat of the water curling tendrils of steam in front of my face. “But, I saw …” I saw what I couldn’t have possibly seen, that’s what I saw. For a moment I debated how much to tell him. “Did I hit my head?”

“You fell, and then you were delirious.”

In a convulsive move, he pulled me closer until I gasped for breath as his arms tightened around my body and his breathing became more labored.

“I remember falling,” I replied, wriggling to get more comfortable. “And the rest was more like a dream. The manor house was there and we were there alone in the music room and you were playing the piano. And then we were making love. It was me, but it wasn’t me.” I forced a laugh as he all but mantled me from behind, his breath skimming my neck. “Dreams are funny like that.” And then I remembered why I’d gone to the overlook in the middle of a storm. “What were you doing up there in this horrible weather, and you were naked. Why?” My stomach dropped, as I recalled how I’d found him and, in spite of the heat of the water, gooseflesh climbed my arms. “Surely you weren’t trying to … I mean you were so close to the cliff’s edge. I was so scared.”

“No,” his voice was suddenly cold, distant. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself. You needn’t have been scared. I won’t, I can’t … do that.”

I turned as best as I could, slopping water over the floor, so that I could see his face over my shoulder. “Were you dreaming, then? Sleepwalking.”

His laugh was no more than a puff of breath against my ear that held little humor. “These days I’m never sure.”

Something in the way he said it made me shiver, but I forced a chuckle. “I think we all feel that way sometimes.”

He didn’t answer, only kissed the top of my head. For a long moment we sat in silent, the only sound the wind howling around the corner of the cottage.

“You called me Felicity,” I ventured.

He flinched at the name. Though he caught himself soon enough, we were skin to skin, I felt it like a tremor through my chest. He sighed out a deep breath then slid a hand up to cup my breast. “What, are you holding me responsible for your dreams now?”

“No. It just seemed so real. I couldn’t have been unconscious that long, if I was unconscious. It was less like a dream than it was flashes of memory.”

“You were stressed, concerned for me, and you fell. That’s all. What matters is that we’re both warm and safe and there are better things to think about right now.” He kissed my ear, then ran a hand down over my belly and between my thighs. I bucked and gasped, setting off another tidal wave of bath water. In spite of what had just happened, in spite of all my questions and doubts, I was ready, anxious for his touch.

“What’s your name?” I spoke around my efforts to concentrate as he nibbled and kissed my neck and shoulder and reacquainted himself with every furrow, every swollen fold, of me. Then with more splashing and awkward wallowing, he helped me turn in the tub to straddle him. “I don’t even know your name,” I said, my mind hanging on to at least that much in the heat of arousal he was stoking.

“Does it matter? Maybe you can find one in your dreams, Felicity.” Before I could respond, he thrust up into me with such force, with such desire, that all I could do was wrap my legs around him and hold on for the ride. Everything else went away. The rest of the world disappeared again, but this time in a storm of desperate lust.

 

If you’ve missed an episode of Concerto, here are the links.

Concerto Part 1: A little Night Music

Concerto Part 2: Distractions

Concerto Part 3: Too Much to Bear Alone

Concerto Part 4: Writing and Waiting

Concerto Part 5: A Duet in a Storm

Concerto Part 6: Remember How it Feels

Concerto Part 7: Unsettled

Concerto Part 8: Into the Storm

 

 

 

 

My Writing Journey – A Guest Post by Tanya Jean Russell (@TanyaJRussell) #giveaway

I have been a bookworm my whole life and can often be found wandering the house, attempting to do my chores without looking away from whatever I’m reading, but I only began writing about five years ago. When I started I honestly thought I could just sit down and bash out the story that was swimming around in my head. Unsurprisingly, it turned out that it wasn’t actually that easy. Apparently writing is a craft and like any craft you need to actually learn what you’re doing.

So I took some courses and joined the Romantic Novelists’ Association (a real must for any budding romance writer – they and their local chapters are amazing). I have also spent the last few years working out where I sit on the planning or writing by the seat of my pants spectrum.

As someone who is notoriously organised (I love a list), I had expected to be a planner. I was wrong, very, very wrong! The one time I tried to plan a full novel, I was so bored with the story when it came to writing it that I totally ran out of steam and it remains unfinished on my computer to this day.

So I then tried to just write without planning. It started off great but I ground to a halt at around 30,000 words and I spent weeks feeling completely stumped as to how to proceed.

It turns out, I like to do a bit of both. When I write now I let the ideas float around in my head for a few weeks before I try putting pen to paper, or more accurately, fingers to keyboard. During that time I make notes in one of the many notebooks I carry everywhere. They are never very coherent but they let me capture the mental images I have of my characters and settings.

When the itch of ideas grows too strong I start writing and keep going until I get stumped, at which point the Post-its and whiteboard come out. I use them to corral my thoughts and spot where more work is needed. It’s the perfect blend of just getting the story out creatively, and planning.

The one thing I’ve really taken away in all of my learning is that I love to get advice and listen to everyone’s ideas and trying them all on for size. You never know which ones might fit!

*****

Shadows of Our PastBlurb

Jackson Halland has spent ten years running from a mistake that cost him everything, including Amory Parker, the woman he loved. With his gut-wrenching response to her reappearance, he realizes that if she will forgive him, then maybe, just maybe, he can forgive himself.

After ten years of working undercover Amory agrees to one final mission. Vowing to get justice for the woman she promised, and failed, to protect, nothing will stand in her way, not the prolific criminal she’s determined to bring down and certainly not coming face to face with the man she fell in love with on her very first undercover assignment, even if he has no idea who she really is, or the part she played in his past.

Buy Links

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Shadows-Past-Tanya-Jean-Russell-ebook/dp/B07B9SNHYN/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

https://www.amazon.com/Shadows-Past-Tanya-Jean-Russell-ebook/dp/B07B9SNHYN/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

https://www.evernightpublishing.com/shadows-of-our-past-by-tanya-jean-russell/

*****

Excerpt

Amory was so engrossed in her thoughts she didn’t hear the approaching sound of bare feet, padding on the smooth wooden floor, until a deep groan broke through them and she looked up to see Jackson. His mussed, dark blond hair was shot through with strands of gold in the overhead lighting.

The man was incredibly made. His arms stretching up and behind his head caused the bottom of his t-shirt to lift a few teasing inches, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of a tanned, rock-hard stomach. They weren’t the sculpted lines that came from the gym, but powerful, solid muscles. A fine trail of hair led the way to the top of his loose navy shorts. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, her gaze was transfixed.

His legs were long and thick, every muscle rippling as he moved down the stairs into the hallway. A rush of heat shot through her body, setting every nerve alight. Her stomach rolled as she absorbed the sight while a little lower everything tightened and tingled. She’d hoped that her memory had been flawed, tinted by the rose-colored lenses of what she had long since accepted was her first love. That clearly wasn’t the case. Rather than letting himself go he had become more impressive. The slenderness of youth had filled out, living up to the promise of overwhelming masculinity.

His lean muscles had broadened, and whilst the softness of youth had faded from his features, it had left a strong profile in its wake. Jackson had grown up all man. She gulped, heat flooding her.

The good feeling from her run was replaced by a more base desire to touch every inch of his perfect body. To pull it hard against her own and feel those muscular planes mold against her. She unconsciously licked her lips as she watched him.

As she met his eyes, the feeling of heat evaporated, replaced by a harsh chill of dread that sank through to her toes. His emotions were playing across his face and it was clear that, despite her DCI’s reassurances, Jackson had joined the dots and figured out who she was. The recognition clearly shocked him as his whole body jolted abruptly to a stop.

Unable to move, she stared helplessly as he began to walk toward her, his face a mix of unreadable emotions. As he reached out, her body began to respond to the heat that rolled off of him. The scent of his skin washed over her, but she moved back defensively. It was a tactical mistake, giving away that she knew who he was, that she had known all along.

“Amory?” he whispered, hope shining oddly through that one word.

Almost imperceptibly shaking her head, all her professionalism flew out the window, and with her heart sinking she managed a stuttered whisper, “N-n-no… No, you’re wrong. I’m Olivia.”

No amount of training was going to get her through this. Despite her only half-admitted hope that he’d see who she really was, Amory knew too much was at stake for this to happen, but it had. Now she had to endure the awful consequences of him recognizing her, the hatred that would follow this moment.

*****

Bio:

I live in England and am married to an amazing Elvis & Neil Diamond tribute artist, thanks to whom I have a house full of jumpsuits & trophies. This, of course, is a source of much embarrassment to our two teenage children!

I am a little obsessive about books and have an embarrassingly huge and ever growing pile of things that I just ‘have’ to read next to my bed.

I squeeze my daydreaming … ahem … ‘writing’ around my family and my day job in HR, and am convinced that chocolate & diet coke should be considered a well-balanced diet!

Author Links

https://www.tanyajeanrussell.com/

https://www.facebook.com/TanyaJeanRussellAuthor/

https://twitter.com/TanyaJRussell

*****

GIVEAWAY!

Make sure to follow the whole tour—the more posts you visit throughout, the more chances you’ll get to enter the giveaway. The tour dates are here: http://writermarketing.co.uk/prpromotion/blog-tours/currently-on-tour/tanya-jean-russell/

Use the Rafflecopter to enter for your chance to win an eBook copy of Tanya’s previous book, Broken Trust.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

At last! The Pole Shoot!

 

This past Saturday, a year and two weeks after I began pole training, the long awaited
photo shoot finally happened. It was nothing like I had planned out in my head. There were a few unexpected turns at the end. On Tuesday before the shoot, I pulled a muscle under my shoulder blade during the pole class warm ups. That meant no going over my moves for the shoot and no last minute practice on Thursday either.

 

On Wednesday, I spent time with my personal trainer, Klaudia, working to mobilise the shoulder and neck and other areas that had stiffened up to compensate for the pain. The next three days were filled with lots of stretching, Epsom salt baths and a diet of anti-inflammatories. Meanwhile my pole instructors were very supportive and promised me they could get me into the moves for the shoot.

 

 

It seems that for a photo shoot it’s all about getting the shot, and as my instructor, Lauren McCormick, told me ,technique goes out the window, which took the pressure off me and off my shoulder.

 

I wish I could say I documented everything in photos right down to the packing up of what I’d need for the day of the shoot. I wish I’d done that, but I didn’t. There are not shots of me getting on the train, me putting on make-up, no shots of me warming up. All my detailed plans went out the window with the injury, and suddenly the game plan was simply to get through the shoot with minimal pain.

 

 

Fortunately I went in with the very best supporter. Mr. Grace went with me to cheer me on, take photos of the shoot and to set me down and give me strong drink after it was over. Having him with me made everything a little easier. Plus it was great to share the experience with my best friend.

 

The photo Shoot was held at the fabulous My Body Rocks Pole Rocks Studio in Reigate, a place I’ve become very familiar with in the past six months. It’s the parent studio for the Guildford studio, and the brain child of one of my heroes, Samantha Holden. I have secret fantasies about just moving in to this place.  Yes, it’s as totally cool inside as the door suggests.

 

 

Most of the mistakes I made had to do with the planning, not the shoot itself. I needn’t have worried about that. Between the lovely photographer, Simon Hooley, and my instructors, Lauren McCormick and Ben Weeks, and with my husband there to cheer me on, I was in good hands.

 

But I showed up way too early, thinking I would use the time to warm up and maybe relax a little, go over the moves in my head. Warming up was limited because of the shoulder, my head was such a muddle that I couldn’t actually think enough to go over my moves even in my head. I already had on most of my make-up. Changing clothes took five minutes, and putting on the feather necklace and playing about with the feather fan took another five.

 

 

It didn’t help nerves that the second studio, which was open for us to warm up and practice in, was a hive of activity. There were people working on hoop. There was a couple of women practicing doubles on the pole next to me. Along with that there was a constant flow of people coming and going. They were all fabulous, and I would have loved watching them any other time. But Saturday, I just felt intimidated, even though they were all very supportive.

 

 

However, once my time came, two very strange things happened. First of all, the half hour photo shoot felt like it went on forever – in a very good way, but I was exhausted by the time we were done. Simon joked that he made it his job to make sure we left the shoot completely broken. Actually, he was very helpful and very lovely. Second of all, it was over in a heartbeat. I don’t know how it could be both. I only know that it was.

 

Yes, the shoulder did hurt with almost every move – especially the getting into the moves. But it didn’t hurt as bad as it could have, and I was careful and took advantage of offered help to get into positions. I quickly learned to intersperse the hard moves with some easier ones. That saved the shoulder and saved me from being more exhausted that I already was at the end. When I started out with a superman, which is one of the hardest moves for me, and I managed it without too much trouble, I knew I’d be okay if I paced myself. After that the nervousness went away, and the whole thing became fun.

 

 

Another lesson I learned is that sometimes the very simplest of moves looks far more elegant than the ones that are the most difficult. The camera doesn’t really show technique or how hard a move is. It only shows the subject, and really, it’s all about the subject … that would be me … looking her best. And that is something Simon does VERY well.

 

During the shoot, Raymond took photos and short vids on my camera so I would have some idea of what the whole process looked like – what I looked like. I’ll have the proofs probably later this week. My husbands documentation, his efforts are what I’m sharing with you in this post. Believe me when I have the actual photos back, I will be sharing them far and wide.

 

 

I say that, but the truth of the matter is that Saturday afternoon when I shared a couple of them on Facebook, I found it a little hard to let them go. I found myself feeling shy and nervous, even still worrying about what other people might think of a 59 year old woman getting half naked and hanging from a pole. Sometimes the things we do for ourselves other people might not understand, and a huge part of the challenge is often to remember that it doesn’t matter. We’re doing it for us. Having said that, I have had nothing but support and positive feedback from people. Perhaps that’s another major lesson to me. While we might not always understand why someone feels compelled to do something, I think everyone understands that need to pursue a challenge that speaks to us.

 

I’ll have the final post of this year-long pole journey when I get the photos back from the shoot.

 

 

Celebrating Summer Solstice with Garden Porn

 

Last December, I wrote a post about celebrating the darkness of Winter Solstice and of partaking in that extra dream time those long winter nights bring with them. It seems appropriate that today I write a post celebrating the light. Happy Summer Solstice, my Lovelies! In the UK, the days are extravagantly long, and everything is blooming itself silly just before setting fruit. OMG! There are not enough words for delicious to describe British asparagus and strawberries!

 

 

And the birds!  The birds start up their raucous Dawn Chorus at 03:45! I know because I heard them start this morning. I think that’s rather auspicious, being awake in the early hours of Summer Solstice to hear the Dawn Chorus begin. And this bad boy black bird is the first to start the song. Even at that insane hour the sky was rimmed with that thin line of silver that happens just before night gives way to the charcoal grey and dusty blue of the first intimations of morning.

 

 

Oh! And if you look out the window at Grace Manor, you will see how we  celebrate summer on our grand estate. That’s right, it’s garden porn time. The light brings with it heat and the heat means the ground is ready to plant. Germination is happening! Beans are thigmotroping, corn is photosynthesising. And we’re ready. We’ve been planning since January.

 

 

This year’s a little different though. This year, we’ve decided to share the fun. It’s a lot of work putting in a veg patch the size of ours — especially when underneath our efforts to build up the soil, it’s still a clay pit that demands lots of physical labour to make it ready. With that in mind, we invited the neighbours, two doors down, to share the veggie fun — a very smart thing to have done. We have not only halved our efforts, but we’ve doubled the laughter and and the excitement and the wonder at seeds growing exponentially into huge plants that produce such succulent delicious treats. Add to the fact that this young couple has no space for a veg patch of their own, and both have a green thumb, and seeing their excitement is almost as much fun as feeling our own.

 

 

And then there’s the celebrating the day’s efforts. That almost always involves beer or cider. Following Sunday afternoon’s efforts, Mr. Grace, in the mood for a party, cranked up the bar-b-q and the four of us sat outside over our burgers and wine and fresh British strawberries. We lingered long into the approaching evening watching the bats fly over and listening to the birds sing their good-nights, while we planned and schemed our veggie kingdom. In the midst of it all, there was a wonderful sense of camaraderie that comes from time spent with kindred spirits.

 

 

Planting things, seeing things grow, tending them, and then harvesting them and feasting always feels like the perfect way to honour the Earth in all of her splendour and change. It’s a wonderful way of being a little closer to those cycles we’re all so connected to and yet have sadly lost touch with. Veg gardening is reconnecting in a visceral way. It’s a very real reminder of what sustains us, what gives us life, and why we celebrate the light.

 

 

Happy Solstice, however you celebrate. Me, I’m going to fondle the plants in my veg patch, then I’m going for a walk in the English countryside. The sun is full on us. Let’s bask in the light, as we dreamed in the darkness, and see what grows from that wonderful, seasonal blending of the two.

 

 

 

 
© 2018 K D Grace
The Romance Reviews

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