The Becoming

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

From the Society Pages of the Times of London, 26th April 1882

It gives us great pleasure to report a most agreeable occurrence which took place at the commencement of the Ladies’ Becoming Period on Thursday last. Though a relatively novel diversion, the Becoming Period is already as hotly anticipated a part of the Social Season as Royal Ascot, Cheltenham, or – for the rural set – the Running of the Maidens.

Though the lion’s share of attention, and the shortest odds, have hitherto been devoted to the obvious candidates – Miss Felicity Spencer, Miss Sarah Francis, and the Wentworth-Walters twins – all of whom are not expected to come out until the summer peak, the first starter out of the blocks was plucky debutante Miss Emma Bulford (Knightsbridge, Maiden), who was kind enough to present herself for the consideration of an extensive crowd of supportive onlookers and well-wishers.

A most promising start it was, indeed. The momentous event took place at the Velvet Club, a modern deflowering house run by Madame Cecile Langoureuse, an establishment fast gaining a firm reputation among the more discerning aficionados of the hedonistic sciences. Such aficionados will recall most particularly their pioneering work – on these islands at least – in the divine art of pompoir, the rhythmic squeezing of the nether muscles while in flagrante, a technique with the most diverting effect on the membrum virile of any gentleman fortunate enough to encounter a lady properly schooled in the practice.

Having lately provided themselves with a prototype example of Armstrong’s innovative new Vaginal Concentrator, a device of fiendish cunning, precision engineering and quite rampant power, the Velvet were thus well-equipped to see to the delightful Miss Bulford’s feminine requisites.

The Vaginal Concentrator, being a penetrating mechanism of the piston-actuated riding-engine variety, and thus steam-powered, requires a formidable quantity of super-heated water to function to its full effect, so while the boiler was brought on to heat the charming Miss Bulford paraded on the street-facing balcony of the Velvet’s Deflowering Chamber in a modish travelling dress of the latest design. This consisted of a bustled skirt of alternate stripes of maroon and black which fluttered pleasingly in the breeze and a rather tight bodice which displayed the comely young lady’s signal charms to most fetching effect, the whole ensemble not at all hidden beneath her brocade shawl.

At the encouragement of the crowd, the delectable Miss Bulford produced a wooden touring case of inlaid walnut, which she opened to display the Instrument of Becoming to which she would presently submit. To the surprise of those assembled, she had chosen not to use the Bulford Instrument, a famously effective (and somewhat notorious) heirloom of her family, and instead had commissioned a new device which, we understand, was largely of her own conception.

Holding aloft the object of her deflowerment, the assembled throng beheld a monstrous godemiche of quite daringly French design. The device she has caused to be created consists of an extremely large glans, bluff-ended to form a blunt and unforgiving ram, and a long shaft bound with alternating diagonal bands of richly cured and oiled leather around a blued Krupp steel core, the whole ensemble monogrammed with the mark of the master maker, V.F. Scaglietti, consigliori of arguably the foremost artisanal workshop currently working in the arena of the dildonic requisite.

A press release issued from the Bulford household vouchsafes to us that there are more than 20,000 individual stitches in the leatherwork, the combined effect of which is to provide a shaped and ridged shaft of quite uncompromisingly stark relief. From the standpoint of the spectator, all we can say for certain of its practical effect is that the object projects an air of being the very apotheosis of the art and science of feminine conquest, and the audience on that day were agog to discover if it operated as well as it looked.

As the coquettish Miss Bulford held the godemiche aloft to demonstrate its length – fully equal to that of her own shapely fore-arm – the crowd could plainly see it was too heavy for her to hold up for more than a few moments (the result, we are told, of a core weighted with brass shot to lend it heft), nor could they fail to notice that her fingers would not even nearly meet around its considerable girth.

Indeed, the object was of such obdurate countenance as to cause even the most seasoned adventuress of carnal diversion to blanch, though it was clear that among those ladies in the audience of a sporting persuasion there was a certain amount of reflective and thoughtful cooing, the ladies in question no doubt recalling their own Becomings and lamenting the comparative primitiveness of the art in their day. We have undoubtedly, and in such a short space, reached the very pinnacle of understanding of the female need, for which we must of course in large part give thanks to Byron and Lovelace’s seminal 1846 work Clitoralia, which did so much to advance the carnal art from the standpoint of the female sex.

Notwithstanding the Bulford Godemiche’s daunting proportions, the lithe Miss Bulford seemed at this juncture somewhat impatient to commence the matter at hand, indeed she displayed such a manifest determination to have the monstrous thing address itself to her passage forthwithly, hopping from foot to foot excitedly as she waited on the preparations within the Chamber beyond, that it fair amused the crowd. The naked eagerness on her part was all the more surprising given that her annuncio virgo intacta, posted as custom dictates in The Times the week before her Becoming, vouchsafed the arresting further detail that the innocent Miss Bulford had never had so much as a finger inserted into her caverna veneris for any purpose whatsoever, much less for the aim of digital manipulation of the female recreative gland. The fact that she was thus untried in that space did nothing to dampen her enthusiasm; contrariwise, this novitiate state of affairs appears instead to have quite dampened her drawers anticipatorily. Undoubtedly, such advance intelligence of the young lady’s ardent naïveté contributed markedly to the size and attentiveness of the crowd now foregathered.

The introductory pleasantries completed, and the steam in the boiler now coming fully to a head, the glorious moment was at hand, and the lissom Miss Bulford left the balcony for the Deflowering Chamber, whereupon a hush fell over the crowd as they strained to discern the events transpiring within its curtained portal.

There was, of course, the primoactive necessity of disrobing to be undertaken. It is not unknown for the more forward participants in the Becoming to discard their undergarments flirtatiously over the balcony rail as they drop their drawers to allow the thing to be done. That this style of occurrence did not eventuate on this occasion may have led the audience to the false supposition that the day’s event was going to be staunchly conventional. Nothing could have been further from the truth, though the event did start predictably enough.

Presently, Mme Langoureuse herself returned to the balcony and held aloft a single finger, the digit slicked with feminine liquid, and announced in a clear, French-accented voice, “She is ready!” This ceremonial detail is a relatively new innovation, but most welcome for a crowd starved of sight of the act in progress, and it is to be hoped that it becomes more widely adopted.

As the Madame returned to the Deflowering Chamber, the assembled throng could clearly discern a loud creaking sound from within, and a – likely less-experienced witness – joyously called out, “It has started!”

Cooler and wiser heads prevailed, and signalled in riposte that the noise merely denoted the young lady had surmounted the rostrum to present herself, yet even this noise was deeply evocative for an audience obliged to follow the proceeding by sound alone, and a welcome indication that events were proceeding satisfactorily, the young lady within the Deflowering Chamber now apparently assuming her correct position.

The throng, craning to catch a glimpse or a sound, now heard the hiss of escaping steam as the Vaginal Concentrator was goaded into life. There followed a brief pause, during which the assembled witnesses collectively held their breath, before a sudden ear-piercing squeal rent the air, an event which bespoke the fact that the machine’s aim was true, and the vulnerable Miss Bulford’s inner sanctum had been impeached for the first time.

Of course, an experienced audience would have fully expected to hear a cry from the delicate Miss Bulford at this the moment of her penetration, having observed the immense girth and punishing bluntness of the device which she had essayed to have at herself with, but even so the shriek she released was strikingly intense, drawn out to a great length, and accompanied by such colourful language as would cause a dockside navvy to blush.

It is of course not considered an embarrassment, in these enlightened times, for a young lady to give vent to her innermost thoughts at times of feminine imposition, yet the audience was quite taken aback by the range and volume of the invective that issued forth, scarcely believing it could come from the delicate rosebud lips of the fragrant Miss Bulford.

Yet as the penetrating machine now began to oscillate, the hubbub continued, manifesting as a series of cries of increasing rapidity and decreasing coherence, which signalled to the assembled throng that the contraption was beginning to have its intended effect, and moreover that the velocitator was being much favoured over the deceleratrix, the young mistress herself naturally being at the controls.

This most wonderful Vaginal Concentrator, claimed by its manufacturer to operate with the power of four lusty dray horses, was clearly having a most singular effect on the receptive Miss Bulford, aided no doubt by the rugose nature of the godemiche mounted upon its tip, even now burrowing with increasing alacrity into the tunnel it had made for itself in her evidently most willing flesh.

It was therefore inevitable that events would proceed rapidly to their natural climax, the machine banging and thudding like a shipyard hammer, yet drowned out even so by such squeals and cries from the wanton Miss Bulford as to wake the entire dead of Hackney Marshes.

With a final cry now issued from pinked lips, descending to silence, the deed was done and the Lady had Become.

The event now apparently completed, a hush fell over the crowd, lately swollen to immense proportions, such as to fill the street across its width and from end to end.

At last Mme Langoureuse stepped out onto the balcony. She held aloft the now-detached godemiche so that all assembled could see the frothed juices coating its shaft, darkening the leather, and running most freely over her fingers and down her fore-arm.

“She has been pierced!” she cried triumphantly, and somewhat redundantly given what all present had heard. The cheers were fulsome and delighted.

The deed thus evidenced, the audience, who may be forgiven for apprehending the day’s performance brought to a satisfactory conclusion, started to disperse.

Yet there then occurred a most unusual incident, the like of which has not been seen before, and which will no doubt set tongues wagging in parlours and withdrawing rooms the length and breadth of the land. For as the Madame stood holding the thing on high, a white-clad apparition materialised on the balcony behind her.

It was the toothsome form of (formerly Maiden, now Lady) Miss Emma Bulford.

She was, accuracy demands one to relate, displaying herself quite improperly, in a state of some dishevelment, discombobulation even, her hair awry and her face flushed in a manner most unladylike yet, as all agreed, most becoming of the moment. She was clad merely in a simple chemise of broderie anglaise, with mother of pearl detailing, the garment by some torrid happenstance partially torn open down the front to display an admirable portion of her admirable portion.

The flagrant little Miss Bulford was also – a situation scarcely to be believed – entirely naked from the waist down, her tuppenny on full and shameless display, presenting a mons veneris of quite startling beauty, glowing pink with arousal and slicked (as were her inner thighs) with the product of her exertion, her fulsomely lavish feminine garden matted and thickened with the self-same juices that coated the godemiche, not so much dew on the lily but more a flood. She was the very image of ruined maidenhood and ascended womanhood, such a vision as to cause all the men to stand to attention and the ladies to swoon in feminine agitation.

Quite shockingly careless of her enflagranted condition, and ignoring the crowd which, though first dumbstruck in shock, now cheered her in gay abandon, she snatched the godemiche from the Madame’s hand and disappeared into the Deflowering Chamber once more, with just a tantalising glimpse of a bared posterior sit-upon both so pert and so flawless as to cause much consternation among the male onlookers and much jealousy among the females, leaving in her wake a fragrant whiff of her feminine musk and an apothegmous observation on the Madame’s parentage which decorum prevents one from recounting here.

Shortly thereafter the mechanical noises, and the cries of abandon, resumed, to wild cheers and applause from the burgeoning throng, who swiftly realised they had been privileged witnesses to a most singular event.

Any fears the more traditionally-minded may have that such an immodest display might harm a young lady’s reputation were swiftly given the lie by the number of calling cards left by young suitors which rapidly built up in the receiving bowl in the entrance lobby of the establishment, even as the performance lingered on into the evening, each gentleman vying to be the next fortunate to follow the Vaginal Concentrator into the provocative Miss Bulford’s chamber. Given the clearly insatiable stamina of the young lady in question, we suspect the likelihood is she will get the better of several such swains when next she deigns to tup.

The revelries continued far into the night, the crowd too inflamed to disperse, and when darkness fell and those watching saw the household dispatch a runner to obtain more coal to keep the concentrator running, they cheered ever more wildly. By this point, escaped steam was puffing rhythmically from the balcony window with each shuddering oscillation of the Vaginal Concentrator, due no doubt to a weakening seal somewhere within the apparatus, and one must imagine the interior of the Deflowering Chamber to have been as hot and humid as a steam bath house. Yet the pace of the machine never slackened.

Since the advent of the mechanical means of feminine relief, born in apparatuses for treating so-called female hysteria, many such devices have been invented. There is the mechanical undulator, the electro-armatrix, the vulval bolide, and who can overlook Dr Swift’s Outstandingly Fortuitous Feminine Hammer, which brought such demonstrable satisfaction to all who essayed it at the Hyde Park Festival in that most diverting summer of 1881?

What all these devices have in common, though their designs and method of operation may be as diverse as the myriad feminine envelopes they are designed to pleasure, is that they are as cunning as man’s wit can make them, the very peak of the art of feminine gratification.

To the select and distinguished group of the very finest penetrating mechanisms we must now warmly add the Armstrong Vaginal Concentrator, though we wryly observe it is may be prudent for Messrs Armstrong and Armstrong to give attention to improving the power and stamina of this otherwise wonderful device, if the running of this particular filly is any guide to what the upcoming season portends.

We must also champion the name of the gratifyingly biddable Miss Emma Bulford, a name very much to be watched, and a decidedly licentious little baggage she is to whom that name attaches.

The sated Miss Bulford finally emerged from her Becoming some hours later than expected, evincing herself well content with the experience. The lady was walking a little unsteadily to be sure, though the whispers she was become bow-legged were no more than scurrilous rumours. Any true and honest witness would attest to the fact that the insouciant Miss Bulford conducted herself with all the poise of a lady, a true doyenne of the amusing pastime that has fast become known as the Sport of Princesses.

Such a delightfully accommodating talent as this will surely not remain unseeded for long, indeed she has already undoubtedly done enough to assure herself of an elevated position on the seeding tables of the British and Empire Thoroughbred Association, and it can only be a matter time before she is fully-rounded.

Indeed, we confidently expect in the very near future to be able to report on these pages that she has successfully surmounted this next challenge, in fine style, and to give a full accounting of any eventuations thereof.

The pliant Miss Bulford was greeted on her emergence by a torch-lit procession and guard of honour of potential young suitors. They would be well advised to take advantage, since the obliging Miss Bulford’s family have most sportingly indicated her amenability to receiving all comers. Indeed, so brazenly receptive is she to any or all eventualities and proclivities arising from the demands of the season, that she has the makings of a proper society strumpet.

As to that season, the salacious Miss Bulford (Knightsbridge, Lady) has thrown down the gauntlet to her sex in no uncertain terms. She has quite ensorcelled our hearts and our members, and if this opening disportment is any indication of what to expect, we look forward to the most delightful of seasons to Become.