A lighter Shed of Grey

A lighter Shed of Grey

We slipped on the veranda, turned cartwheels ‘cross the lawn, I was feeling kind of beer sick, but I still crawled out for more. The shed was spinning faster, and my date began to sway. When I offered her another drink, she fainted clean away.
And so it was later, that Camilla viewed the scene. And her face at first just yellow, turned a lighter shade of green. She said ‘This shed looks frightful,’ And  the truth was plain to tell, in my haste I’d made my out-house, A psychedelic hell. Over sixteen fretful virgins had left without their coats, and although my door was open, it might just as well have been closed.
And so it was later, that the painter had his way, and my shed at first just ghastly turned a lighter shade of grey . . .

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Sadly, the change of colour didn’t prove any more successful. In despair, I turned to poetry but that didn’t work either  . . .

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‘Shall I compare thee to a summerhouse? Thou art more homely and more intimate. Rough women do shake my darling shed of grey, but summarily spurn a second date.’

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However, after many years spent alone with nothing but my poetry and the swimsuit edition of Sheds Illustrated to keep me company, my luck finally changed. Brenda was everything those girls weren’t – easily pleased. Our eyes had met across a crowded garden centre. The very next day I took her home to meet my shed and I knew instantly from her reaction (she didn’t run away, screaming) that she was the one. We were married just three weeks later (it was quite a short guest list as it was only a small shed) and spent an idyllic honeymoon basking in the Caribbean sun . . .

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We stood alone on the idyllic white beach. She shed her clothes. I shed my inhibitions. At that moment I knew it would always be about sheds.

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Fifty Sheds Of Grey

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. . . A gentle tapping jolts me from my sun-kissed reverie. I glance at my office door and straighten my back, ready to greet my mystery visitor. ‘Come in,’ I repeat, a little deeper and even more gravelly. Still the door doesn’t move. I’m bracing myself for my very deepest and most gravelly voice ever when I notice a pigeon sitting on the window ledge. He cocks his head quizzically at me then taps the glass with his tiny beak. I smile at him and give him a wink, then frown at my 96-diamond platinum Rolex. Where has this woman got to? It must be a quarter of an hour since the call. ‘Hello . . . Olivia? Did you send that woman up? She hasn’t arrived yet.’ The voice on the line answers in the affirmative. ‘Strange . . . ‘ I reply, ‘Oh well, could you reschedule my three o’clock? Thank you. Oh, and can you call the exterminators? The pigeons are back.’ I stroke my chin. Maybe she’s changed her mind. I should get back to work – I don’t want to waste the whole afternoon waiting for somebody not to come. I look at my computer screen and place my long, sturdy fingers on the keyboard but somehow my eyes are drawn back to the photographs on the wall and one in particular. Our first shed together . . .

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We arrived at our new home, tired but happy. Being a romantic and a traditionalist, I insisted on sweeping her up in my arms and carrying her across the threshold. ‘Ouch!’ she cried as her head hit the shed roof. I agreed to move the new shed to the back garden to avoid a repeat. And so our married life, with all its ups and downs, began . . .

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We tried various positions – round the back, on the side, up against a wall . . . but in the end we came to the conclusion that the bottom of the garden was only place for a really good shed.

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She knelt before me on the shed floor and tugged gently at first, then harder until finally it cam. I moaned with pleasure. Now for the other boot . . .

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I stared down at her, my hands on my hips. She’d been on her hands and knees for well over an hour. Finally I spoke . . . ‘Are you sure you lost your contact lens in here?’

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Grey Sheds

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‘Harder,’ she cried gripping the workbench tightly, ‘Harder!’ ‘Alright,’ I said. ‘What’s the gross national product of Nicaragua?’

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My body writhed and quivered from the pain. I had learned my next lesson. Never again would I leave an upturned plug on the shed floor.

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‘Are you sure you want this?’ I asked. ‘When I’m done you won’t be able to sit down for weeks.’ She nodded. ‘Okay,’ I said, putting the three-piece suite on eBay.

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I was excited, but nervous. I’d been accepted into the BDSM community – Builders, Decorators and Shed Maintenance.

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As I stared out at the army of strange creatures standing to attention on the lawn, I realized I’d mixed up the slug pellets and the Viagra.

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I smile to myself, taking another sip of water. Married life was so happy and simple – a beautiful shed. But then one day, without warning, everything changed . . .

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The soft, rhythmic motion rocked me gently as I headed home that day, blissfully unaware of what lay in wait. I looked blearily around the train carriage at my fellow commuters, the men nose-deep in their broadsheets, the women staring wide-eyed and rosy-cheeked at their paperbacks. I wondered what type or literature could be evoking such a flushed response. On closer inspection I was surprised to see that all of their books bore the same cover – a silver knotted tie on a dark background. My brow furrowed. Were today’s women really so fascinated by male formal attire? I was clearly out of touch – perhaps I should ask my own dear Brenda. However, when I arrived home I was surprised to find a letter waiting for me on the dining table: ‘Your dinner’s in the supermarket.’ I called her name but there was no reply. I searched every room until finally I found her, lying in the bath, surrounded by scented candles, reading THAT book. From that moment things would never be the same again . . .

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sexy sheds

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‘Punish me,’ she cried desperately, ‘Make me suffer like only a real man can!’ ‘Very well,’ I replied, leaving the toilet seat up.

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She told me it turned her on to have her movements restricted when she made love. I looked around – I was going to have to get a smaller shed.

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‘Are you sure you can take the pain?’ she demanded, brandishing her stilettos. ‘I think so,’ I gulped. ‘Here we go, then,’ she said, and showed me the receipt.

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‘Pleasure and pain can be experienced simultaneously,’ she said, gently massaging my back as we listened to her Coldplay CD.

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‘Now,’ she said, fiercely, ‘I’m going to take you by the collar and lead you naked round the garden.’ I was shocked – the poor vicar had only popped round for a cup of tea.

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My whole body shuddered as she entered my Man Cave. I really must get a padlock for the shed door.

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‘Hurt me,’ she begged, raising her skirt as she bent over my workbench. ‘Very well,’ I replied, ‘You’ve got fat ankles and no dress sense.’

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60 sheds of grey

 

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Ever since she read THAT book, I’ve had to buy all kinds of ropes, chains and shackles. She still manages to get into the shed though.

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‘Happy birthday,’ she said, placing a riding crop in my hand and lowering her skirt, ‘Today’s your lucky day’. I couldn’t believe it – I was getting a pony!

—————————————————————————————————————————————–I froze when I saw the room full of masks, saddles and oddly-shaped battery-powered devices. That was it – no more drunk-ebaying for me.

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She gazed up at me wide-eyed from the shed floor and bit her lip seductively. Unfortunately it was her top lip so she looked like a piranha.

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By the time I’d finished, her bottom was bright pink – I’d mixed up the baby oil and the Thousand Island dressing again.

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I’m a very naughty girl,’ she said, biting her lip, ‘I need to be punished.’ So I invited my mother to stay for the weekend.

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‘I am your master,’ I commanded, ‘You will obey my rules,’ She rolled her eyes and walked out of the shed. That was definitely it – I needed to get a new cat.

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sexy sheds of grey

 

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As we stood there naked in Ikea, we came to an important decision. Next time only one of us would wear a blindfold.

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‘Make me feel pain like I’ve never felt before,’ she pleaded, blindfolded and naked. ‘Alright,’ I said, placing the Lego bricks on the shed floor . . .

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‘Yes, mistress,’ I replied. I didn’t dare argue as I bent over the workbench – I could see she had a strop on. At least, I think that’s what they’re called.

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I told her exactly what she should do in my sternest and most dominant voice and awaited her response. Finally it came. ‘Please hold the line. Your call is very important to us . . .’

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As we were discharged from the casualty department for the third time that month, we began to wonder whether we should change the safe word from Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.

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We each dropped our keys into the bowl. Before long we’d be entering a world of forbidden delights. God, I loved those shed-swapping parties.

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So this was it – it was really going to happen. Every man’s ultimate fantasy . . . Three In A Shed

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I managed to stay calm as my wife expertly bound my wrists and ankles. Although I have to admit I did get a little nervous when she bundled me into the boot of the car . . .

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‘You’re obsessed!’ she cried, slamming the door as she stormed out, ‘You love this shed more than me!’ I frowned. Obsessed? Me? Ridiculous! Shed be back. I mean, she’d be back . . .

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50 sexy sheds of grey

 

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But she wasn’t. Brenda never returned and once more I was alone. I retreated into my shed. I sought solace in my garden and the World Wide Web. I tried dating and social networking sites, soon becoming quite proficient at the lingo. It didn’t take me long to figure out the acronyms (PMSL – Painting My Shed Lovingly, LMAO – Lawn Mowers Are Ok) but for some reason, none of these sites yielded a companion. I gave up and found myself drawn to the darker corners of the internet and immersed myself in a twilight world of garden-based erotica, tawdry one-night sheds and online movies such as Last Tango in Homebase, The Red Shed Diaries and 91/2 Weeds . . . I started around the shed Brenda and I modified, and sighed. I stroked the leather studded workbench sadly. And then suddenly it came to me . . .

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I stare at the photograph in the very centre of the group. Our shed. The one I eventually agreed to convert into our ‘playroom’. The one that sat empty for years until the day I inexplicably found myself opening its door again, looked around at the chains hanging sadly from the walls, stroked the leather studded workbench and . . . had an idea. Not just an idea. The idea. The idea that was to make my name. The idea that gave me this vast, sprawling desk in this vast, sprawling office and three quarters of this vast, sprawling metropolis. I walk slowly over to the door and open it to look at the brass plate affixed to the other side.
‘Colin T. Grey, CEO, Slea-Z-Sheds International’. I brush the gleaming brass with the cuff of my Armani suit and my face breaks into a proud and slightly sad smile.
‘Hello.’
I swivel round then immediately freeze, my heart pounding. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. After all this time. After all those sheds. Finally my open mouth begins to form words.
‘What . . are you. . doing here?’
‘Ssssshh . . ‘ she whispers, placing her finger over my lips.
‘But . . . It’s been so long,’
‘I know,’ she says softly, ‘the elevator was broken.’
‘No, I mean . . . ‘
‘I wanted to wait . . . until the time was right.’ She reaches into her purse and draws out a blindfold. ‘Come with me,’ she says raising it to my eyes.
I roll my eyes and bite my lip. Just when I thought I had finally reached a lighter shade of Grey, I can see that, once again, things are about to get darker . . .

Posted by: Admin on Category: Shed Banter