Placing the chocolate éclair precisely on the cusp of the assistant librarian, no matter whether she is perfectly-bound or not, is often – to a large extent a matter of artistic interpretation, rather than an exact science.’
Bertrand Russell – Principia Naughtyathica (Introduction).
Now, I’m sure that the above is something all of you (both) gathered here to peruse my organ have often considered. For, it is a question, is it not, whether the perverted arts are as much a science as they are an art? For in a sense doesn’t the constant refinement of technique; i.e. the best way to butter a hot strumpet, the precise compass bearing in which to place your manacled traffic warden and the particular temperature of your custard before you introduce the cross-dressed supply geography teacher to it, all depend on repeated experimentation and observation?
Occasionally, in my experience, it seems that seating one’s suitably lubricated and oiled postmistress in the tupping harnesses is often a matter of accurate alignment and careful adjustment. Usually in order to make sure that she is in the optimum position for the commencement of the perverse arts and practices whilst at the same time being able to continue her knitting unhindered, especially when the weasels are coming up to full speed.
However, on the other hand, there is an art to knowing just when to lasso the assistant librarian before she starts to index your monographs, or even before she considers what forfeit is necessary should you become overdue.
It is very much an art too to know when it is time to introduce the cream cakes to the orgy participants. Too soon and there is the danger of sudden cream spillage, and we all know how disappointing it can be if you cream spills too soon when engaged with, say, a bevy of stable girls in full riding tack. Too late and everyone is over-satiated and can only manage the most desultory fingering of your cream horn.
In conclusion, then, when one is asked whether perversion is an art or science one can say – with full confidence – ‘I’m buggered if I know.’
A tale from the From the LFITW archive
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