Fifty Sheds of Grey

City Sheds Of Grey

Not Shades of Grey

This is a funny book by C.T. Grey

 

I can still feel my knuckles rapping lightly on the heavy oak door of Mellors Manor. There was no reply . I noticed a thick red rope hanging limply from the lintel. I gave it a bereaves tug. The door flung open instantly and my eyes were met for the very first time by the shapely, mature figure of Lady Christina Mellors. She was a good fifteen years older than me but even at my  tender age I felt something stir. I coughed and, in a timid voice, enquired as to whether there might be any work she needed doing in the grounds of the manor. Her eyes widened and she informed me that her gardener had left for the summer – on gardening leave, apparently – and that with Lord Mellors also away, hunting rare tribes in the Amazon, her garden was in desperate need of a jolly good seeing to. Before I had time to reply, she grabbed my arm and led me to the garden shed. A shed that would change my life forever . . .

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My heart raced to see her lush, overgrown lawn – such a rare and wondrous sight. Nowadays the tendency is for just a small strip or no lawn at all.

Fifty Sheds of Grey

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50 sexy sheds of grey

 

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I emptied the water butt for the fifteenth time that day and collapsed, exhausted, into my shed. I like big butts and I cannot lie.

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Lady Christina eyed me lasciviously as I removed the last flagstone. That was it – the woman was thoroughly depaved.

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It was damp, uncomfortable and didn’t last very long but it’s true what they say – you never forget your first shed.

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Lady Christina bit her lip as she eyed my dripping brush. Somehow I knew it wouldn’t be long before I’d be touching up her gazebo.

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As she manually adjusted my sprinkler, my inner gardener did a Morris dance of delight.

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My eyes watered as I howled with pain. I had learned my first lesson. Never again would I leave a gnome on the garden bench.

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Things continued in this painfully innocent fashion until one particularly hot afternoon Lady Christina could wait no longer. Without a word, she grasped me firmly by the hand and led me up the garden path. That fateful day, I went into the shed a boy . . . and came out a man.

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I lay back exhausted, gazing happily out of the shed window. Despite my concerns about my inexperience, my rhubarb had come up a treat.

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From that first encounter I was hooked – I just couldn’t get enough of sheds and mowers. Or S&M for short.

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I sign deeply and take a sip of water. That unforgettable encounter in Lady Christina’s garden changed me forever. It left me with a lifelong love of sheds – and fear of women. That very day I resolved to leave home, find a job and satisfy my cravings as soon as possible.
I lean forward in my large leather chair, scanning the other photographs until finally my eyes rest on the one I’m looking for – the first shed I ever owned. Not much to look at on the outside but filled with many happy memories. Well, memories . . .

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50 sexy sheds of grey

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‘This is a contract between you and me,’ she said coolly. I signed shakily. This was it. In twelve easy monthly payments the shed would be mine.

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I stared longingly through the shed window and adjusted my trousers. The sight of her dewy, slightly unkempt lawn had awoken my inner gardener.

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Over the next few years, I brought an array of weird and wonderful young women to my shed with varying degrees of failure . . .

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She stood before me, trembling and naked in my shed. ‘I’m yours for the night,’ she gasped,  ‘you can do whatever you want with me,’ So I took her to Nando’s.

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She told me she was kinky . . . So I left the shed light on.

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‘I do have one fetish,’ I admitted, ‘MILFs . . . Mowers I’d Like To Fix.’

—————————————————————————————————————————————–She gazed wide-eyed at the cans stacked precariously against the crimson shed wall. ‘Welcome,’ I announced proudly, ‘to the Red Room Of Paint.’

—————————————————————————————————————————————–‘Meet me in the shed in half an hour wearing only your wellingtons.’ I sighed and put the phone down. I hated these late-night booty calls.

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‘Put on this rubber suit and mask,’ I instructed, calmly.
‘Mmmm . . . kinky,’ she purred.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘Plus you can’t be too careful with all that asbestos in the shed roof.’

—————————————————————————————————————————————–‘Not in this shed,’ she said, ‘I’m an exhibitionist – I need to do it somewhere we can be seen.’
I stared at her, horrified. ‘Not . . . the conservatory?’
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50 sheds of grey

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‘No,’ she sighed, gazing sadly at the large stuffed crust Hawaiian with extra cheese, ‘I said I’m really turned on by orders from dominants.’

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‘I think it’s time for us to take things to the next level,’ she said, eagerly.
‘What?’ I replied, ‘. . . the shed roof?’

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My eyes dance around the monochrome montage of photographs until finally coming to rest on another, altogether different shed. Increasingly desperate, following a string of distinctly unromantic liaisons, I had come to the obvious conclusion – it must be the shed. It was the Seventies, the time of glam-rock and flares. My poor brown shed just wasn’t cutting it. I had to take action. I took an evening class in shed design and maintenance and before the year was out I had designed and built my very own shed! A friend of mine, a professional decorator, offered to paint it for me. He joked that he should paint it grey to match my name but I was looking for something altogether more eye-catching. When it was finished I stood back to admire its multi-coloured splendour. There was no doubt about it – it was fifty shades of groovy!
Camilla was just one of several young ladies to sample the ‘delights’ of my Love Shack. I got chatting to her in the local pub and when I mentioned my unusual erection, she said she’d love to take a look and so, after rather a lot of beers and Babychams (I forgot what she had), we stumbled eagerly back to my house . . .

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Posted by: Admin on Category: Shed Banter