There’s a problem about masturbation for some people, like dogs who won’t stop barking.
One day there was a girl who did it in return for punishments and rounds of praise which varied according to the weather of tactics. It was her bottom after all, and how would anyone know if she polished it backwards and forwards to warm up the bed at night. It disillusioned the housekeepers and anyone she met, but presumably nobody knew about this kind of habit because it was done when no one was around.
Therefore when people were around, they weren’t able to be supportive. Oh do stop barking they’d sound. Some of the punishments were just like put her in the attic where its cold and there isn’t a bed. But magic in the attic came alive, for there were shabby clothes and toys which could speak books and double dutch. Oh well this isn’t so bad thought the girl, accompanied with griffins and talking tortoises.
Her bottom was a magic button in some respects because fiddling with it got her into captured fun. Naturally enough the supernatural came alive and provided tips and to do lists. Magic struggles like masturbation are quite secret. Who would suppose if there was a calling to perfect it.
One day the roof blew off and she got into trouble for having started a whirlwind when actually it was a Wind lady who had sent one to let her out.
One day some dukes came to lunch and they were terribly polite from despair for her as she looked like a promising debutante. Despite all the fun goings on in the attic, there’d be no place for her in mansions or even terraced housing if she carried on rubbing it in.
Special because of it. Wanted and then didn’t want to move to a different part of the world. That may have been her plan but she kept changing it.
Kind people felt sorry for her and mean people pulled her hair. She wondered what the interconnections were. Was she an inventor? When she was thirty nine she stopped doing it. By then the humans she knew, (and even ones she hadn’t met) had mostly gone off her as a lonely torturer. The flip side was meant to be an opera singer.
The moral of the story is not to rub things out too consistently. It’s the same as smoking.