The Hotel Nymphomania

By Faye Rossignol

In a life dedicated to the call of the flesh, in which erotic pleasures and exotic bedrooms are commonplace, there is nothing that excites Freddy "Smiler" more than the business of a fine sporting house. He has journeyed the breadth of America in search of sensual experience, from New York to New Orleans to San Francisco, savouring the finest bordellos of the New World – and their delightful inhabitants. In San Francisco, known before the great earthquake as the city of sinners, Smiler reaches his goal – the biggest, the grandest, the swankiest whorehouse in the world... The Hôtel Nymphomania!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Faye Rossignol
• Release date: Sep 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310051661

Faye Rossignol

Faye Rossignol - who is (or was) she?Search for Faye Rossignol on Google and three attractive ladies bearing her name are listed (at the time of writing, which is 2014). None of them is "our" Faye Rossignol, which suggests that the name is, in any case, a nom-de-plume. "Rossignol" was French slang in the 19th Century for the female pudendum - and our Faye would most certainly have been aware of that! In fact, little or nothing is known of the life (or possible death) of this female (or was she male?) writer. Her seventeen manuscripts were discovered on Saturday, September 19th, 1988, just after dawn. They lay in a skip filled with builder's rubble in London's fabulously wealthy and upmarket Eaton Square. Despite that, it is clear that they were not simply thrown out at so much junk; they were intended to be discovered and, eventually, to achieve the publication they so richly deserve. How can we assume that? For a start, they were heavily wrapped in a waterproof oilcloth before being completely heat-sealed in two layers of heavy-duty polythene; and the outer layer was of the UV-resistant kind so that they would have survived exposure on a garbage tip, even in direct sunlight, without degradation. And they were carefully placed right on top of a full skip - in plain view of any passer-by of average height. Whoever dumped them was probably still in Eaton Square when they were spotted and rescued. Alas, the luck that any bibliographer might have enjoyed ended right there and then.They contained not a single handwritten word that might have helped trace them to the hand that wrote them. Each manuscript was neatly typed using a daisywheel printer, so we know that the writer had access to the primitive word-processors of the early-to-mid-eighties (and it would surely have taken that many years for "Faye" to have written all seventeen volumes). The paper was in standard A4 sheets of various brands, all widely sold throughout the country. In short, there is little hope of tracing "her" through either the paper or the method of printing.Various names have been suggested for the true author, including the satirist William Donaldson (1935-2005) and the politician the Right Honourable Enoch Powell (1912-98). Donaldson (most famous as the author of The Henry Root Letters) is suspected because he once lived in a brothel run by his girlfriend in the nearby Fulham Road and because of the prankish nature of the manuscripts' discovery. And Enoch Powell because anybody taking a late-afternoon stroll around that part of Belgravia in the 1980s and '90s was almost certain to see the British Warm overcoat and the black Homburg hat that both clad the man and trumpeted his sartorial fanfare; one saw them well before those large, limpid, ice-pale eyes loomed out of the circumambient fog of fashionable London, mesmerizing pedestrians to step off the kerb and lower their gaze until he had floated by. He was the very spirit of the place, and perhaps death itself has been unable to prevent his apparition even today? Of the two, we must lean toward Donaldson or some satirist poured into a similar mould. The addresses given by "Faye" in various Introductions in the books - Bushey Arches ... Bushey Park ... Much Hadham ... Crouch End ... Effingham (all genuine places in England) - point to that sort of humour, which is too playful for old Enoch.But perhaps Faye really is a woman after all. Many of her most ardent fans would dearly love to have it proved. A Scarlet Woman? Here one can paraphrase the doggerel about the Scarlet Pimpernel:They seek her here.They seek him there.Her fans they seek "Faye" everywhere.Has she a hole or has he a pole?That damned elusive Rossignol!When all's said and done, we are left (most fortunately) with the writing. Despite its subject matter, the literary merit of "Faye's" work was soon recognised by, it so happens, a beneficed clergyman in the Church of England. He, however, wishes to remain anonymous. Indeed, everyone connected with the rescue and publication of "her" works, is by choice anonymous. The media feeding-frenzy that would be unleashed were even one of them to be named in public would divert all attention away from the books, whose merits are great enough for them to speak for themselves. If "Faye" herself desired to remain unsung, how could lesser mortals muscle in openly by name and bask in the light that "she" had shunned? It would be unconscionable. In short: Shallow-minded seekers after any sort of "celebrity" link must learn to grow up and content themselves, instead, with these seventeen bright jewels of modern erotic fiction.(Shortly after www.Fayerossignol.org/asm went online an anonymous surfer submitted an image found among items left by his late father, who operated a photo booth on New York's Coney Island. Its attractions included a six-foot image of Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa, with a hole where the face would be. People would poke their heads through the hole and have their photograph taken. The name, place, and date were then added to the print. ["And," our surfer adds, "Dad made a fortune for supplying pictures with falsified dates to most of the adulterers in New York."] If this is, indeed "our" own dear Faye, it is the only known picture of her to have surfaced so far.)

Book preview

HNY title page

Contents

Intro: How Smiler began his sexual obsessions

1: Young Tillie on the Ecstasy Machine

2: No! she gasped - meaning yes, of course

3: A wonderful partner, in bed and out of it

4: Fort Worth - where the girls never undress

5: A truly memorable session with Lenie

6: The whorehouse is absolutely unique!

7: Oh Mister Alcock - do that again!

8: Sin City: gold buys pussy … pussy gets gold

9: What a beautiful smile you have down there!

* Hotel Nymphomania brochure

10: Lenie’s $30, one-hour debut

11: Two hundred near-naked girls under one roof!

12: Thirty-two positions for real-good loving sex

13: The wonderful aroma of the wanton female

14: My life of dedication to the female sex, and sex

15: I test four new girls for Life on the Game

16: This sure beats the hell out of Hell!

17: So mah li’l pussy’s worth … nine thousand?

18: Statistics of the successful whore? Balderdash!

19: Her only response was a shy, awkward smile

20: She let me do all the work for her

21: Today we want a Jemima, a Jacqueline, and a Carla

22: My debut as a male prostitute for women’s pleasure

23: Poke me any way you like, she says

24: It was actually an enjoyable screw for me, too.

25: My final trick was the strangest of all

Titles from the Faye Rossignol Press

       Sweet Fanny

The erotic education of a Regency maiden

    Sweet Fanny’s Diary

The sensual education of a Victorian maiden

    Lord Hornington’s Academy of Love

An erotic adventure from the Victorian Age

    A Victorian Lover Of Women

A chronicle of illicit sexuality

    ffrench Pleasures

The story of a most dedicated courtesan

    The ffrench House

The scandalous exploits of Europe’s most dedicated courtesan

    Pearl of the Hareem

The sensational story of life in an Oriental hareem

    Pearl of the Desert

Our heroine’s erotic spree continues in the desert

    Pearl of the Courtesans

Our heroine thrives in a house of pleasure

    The Girls of Lazy Daisy’s

Freddy Smiler begins his erotic adventures

    Nude Rising

Smiler’s reckless promiscuity continues

    Call of the Flesh

Smiler in the fleshpots of Europe

    Hôtel Nymphomania

Smiler romps through America’s bordellos

    Beginners Please

Young prostitutes reveal how it was for them

    Willing Girls

The erotic life of Riley on five continents

    Sporting Girls

Riley can’t get enough of it

    Véronique

An innocent girl surrenders to her instincts

Available from all ebook outlets

Links at http://www.fayerossignol.org/asm

This novel creates an imaginary sexual world.

In the real world it is important to practise safe sex.

Original paperback publication © 1996

This ebook format © 2014 Faye Rossignol

Published by Smashwords

The right of Faye Rossignol to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published and without similar conditions being imposed on any subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Introduction

The man known as ‘Smiler,’ not only by us but by several thousand girls (most of them now dead, the rest in their eighties) was born Freddy Alcock in a village outside Leeds in July 1870. Just before his seventeenth birthday the girl next door, a beautiful, dark-eyed young temptress called Rachel, flashed her naked breasts at him from her bedroom window. The invitation could not have been more obvious – but so, too, were the perils of accepting it. For Freddy was, like most sixteen-year-old boys of his day, a thorough virgin. He had never so much as seen a girl’s breast before, let alone fondled one; the only kissing he knew was the chaste, giggly sort provoked by games of Postman’s Knock.

In desperation he turned to his Uncle Tommy, who was already an experienced lecher, though only four years older than our Freddy. Tommy obliged by taking him to the best whorehouse in the North of England – Lazy Daisy’s, which was a short bicycle ride from home. There, terrified but excited, he had the good fortune to ‘go upstairs’ with a sweet an experienced young fille de joie called Maisie. Here’s how he describes their ascent to Paradise, Maisie being almost naked:

She took my hand and led me along the arcaded corridor to the last door on the right. This opened onto the old servants’ stair, which now led up to what were called the Intimate Rooms on the top floor of the main house.

You take that, she said, handing me a lighted oil lamp. I’ll lead the way.

The narrow stair forced me to walk behind her; its steepness brought the cleft of her derrière above the level of my eyes. Yet she was so close I was forced to squint to make out the details.

Ever see the likes of that? she asked, pausing and arching her back to make her bottom jut pertly back.

No, I whispered, shivering violently.

Rest the lantern on the step between your feet, she advised. Or you’ll set the whole place on fire! That’s a good boy! Now, let your eyes drink their fill.

Her delicate fingers stole behind and coyly parted the tufts of her bush. Tell me what you see, she said.

Something I’ve ... I mean, the most beautiful ... I can’t think of any words to describe it, I finished lamely.

It’s a smile, she said simply. ‘Can you see that? Two lips parting in a smile?"

Ye-es! I murmured ecstatically.

It’s a smile of welcome, Freddy. It’s a welcome for you. There’s two dozen girls like me in this House, and we all keep a smile of welcome like that. A vertical smile, all warm and snug between our legs – just for you. Think of all those smiles when you’re feeling lonely, eh?

The pleasure of exploring the warm, dark snuggery behind that vertical smile was so intense, so seductive, that Freddy spent the rest of his long life repeating it with as many girls as possible – but most often with his lifelong lover and mistress, Kitty Bossom, known everywhere as ‘Kitten,’ whom he met at Lazy Daisy’s the week after he lost his virginity with Maisie.

She was the daughter of the ferociously puritanical Sir Charles Bossom of Hetherington Hall. One of the footmen there had fingered her. She, being as ignorant as most young girls of that time, assumed that this was what the Bible meant when it spoke of a man ‘knowing’ a woman – and so confessed to that ‘fate worse than death’ when confronted with her villainy. Her father, of course, threw her out at once.

She, having no money-earning assets beyond the one she was sitting upon, had the good fortune to be guided toward Lazy Daisy’s – and the even better fortune to be paired (by a kindly and compassionate Madame) with the ardent young Freddy Alcock. Again, he describes it thus:

Plunging my head into that feverish space beneath her petticoat was like trespassing into the lair of some gorgeous feral animal. The breath that rises oî a redhead’s quim is unique among the whole tribe of woman; it is the subtlest possible blend of aromatic perfumes – zesty and soporific at the same moment, spicy and yet oddly muted, too. Trap it beneath fresh-laundered linen on a hot summer’s afternoon when the girl herself is beginning to melt with sexual passion and you have a formula to stun the mind and enslave the body for life. I was stunned and enslaved to my luscious Kitten from that hour.

Kitten took to the receiving end of whoring as avidly as our Freddy did to the other end of the business. They were a well-matched pair. Cunning little Kitten cured him early of any tendency to jealousy. She asked him to try out each and every girl at Lazy Daisy’s and write a report on her performance – good points and bad. All his findings are reproduced in loving detail in The Girls of Lazy Daisy’s , the first volume in the ‘Smiler’ series of memoirs.

Indeed, it was the girls of that fine old sporting house who first gave him the nickname Smiler. They were so impressed by his singleminded adoration of the Vertical Smile that they embroidered a little sampler in which the ‘i’ was embellished to resemble that delightful organ – the dot above it becoming, of course, the clitoris! The name was justifiably his until 1947, when he died as he had lived, in flagrante delictu or ‘in fragrant delight,’ as he liked to translate it.

After a few months on The Game, Kitten became the mistress of a young, aristocratic officer, Lieutenant the Hon. Wellesley O’Toole de North of the Duke of Leeds Light Infantry – Tooley to his friends. She did not love him; she merely wished to better herself; she hoped Smiler would understand.

But Smiler did not understand. He had been jealous of Tooley from the moment he first saw the man – coming downstairs at Lazy Daisy’s, smiling like the cat that got the cream:

He was in full mess undress, sword and spurs all clanking, carrying the plumed tricorn of the Duke of Leeds Light Infantry on one arm. And on the other (my blood still boils to think of it) was my own sweet Kitten, laughing at his jokes and snuggling against him as if beginning a fresh seduction. She was naked but for her black stockings, high-heeled boots, and a scanty black corset. But worst of all was the glow of satisfaction she wore on her skin, the shine of achievement she carried on her cheeks, and the gleam of triumph that flashed from her eyes. Not only was I forced to acknowledge that this god in uniform had spent the evening tucking his no doubt magnificent organ into my darling Kitten’s tail, but also that my darling Kitten’s hot little tail had fluttered in dizzy frenzy at every rapturous thrust.

Kitten soon became Tooley’s exclusive mistress. In a fit of pique Smiler went out and picked up the filthiest young drab he could find along the canal bank at Hunslett. Such was his luck, however, that he discovered her to be a drunken virgin whose even more drunken mother had brought her there that night for the first time. He called her ‘Calamity’ because that was all he could make of her attempts to say Clementine. When she was washed, deloused, and sober, he began to teach her the mysteries of sexual pleasure, eventually turning her into a sexpot whose voracious appetite even he was unable to satisfy.

He describes every lascivious detail of her education in Nude Rising, the second volume in the Smiler memoirs, including how he took her (and Kitten and a girl called Dido, whose favours he had won at cards) to the Maison ffrench in Paris – then the most luxurious brothel in the world. (See ffrench Pleasures and The ffrench House in my editing of Charlotte ffrench’s memoirs.)

He then returned to Leeds and set about the seduction of his prim and strictly religious young neighbour, a certain Miss Campbell, for whom the adjective ‘prick-teaser’ might have been especially coined. Eventually he and two young bachelor friends, who have also been teased to death by her combination of innocent exhibitionism and sexual frigidity, decided to teach her the lesson she so richly deserved – only to find that a more willing pupil never wriggled in ecstasy as two lusty young men took turns to cure her night starvation. Yes, two lusty young men, not three – for as soon as Smiler saw what an ardent little filly she was beneath that prim exterior, he neatly turned the tables on her by saying that, if she wanted him, she knew where to find him.

She did, of course – both want him and find him – and the sexual romps that followed were among the raunchiest in all his many writings. They, too, are to be found in Nude Rising.

Kitten did not stay at the Maison ffrench very long. The endless repetition of the sexual act in the same luxurious bed did not suit her adventurous temperament. She returned to her darling Smiler, who was now an experienced and successful gambler, and together they wandered around the grand spas and watering holes of Europe, each in his or her own way relieving the idle rich of their leisure and money.

But this life, too, began to pall. Kitten, who saved every penny and invested it shrewdly, said she wanted several months without any sex. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy it. She did – enormously. But she had developed a fear of ‘going stale’ and losing her taste for it altogether. For Smiler the thought of going even one day without slipping The Lad into a bit of warm nookie was terrifying. So, not too reluctantly, he set off for America in August 1900, joking that, whereas other men might seek America’s wide-open spaces, he was more interested in the country’s wide-open girls.

And he found them in plenty.

The Call of the Flesh, the third volume in the Smiler series, covers his erotic adventures in New York and New Orleans – and on the train between those two wide-open cities.

His first conquest was Heidi, a plump young German servant girl at his rooming house in Manhattan, whom he saw being caned by a certain Miss Carron, a woman who made a profession of whipping naughty children and wayward servants whose parents or masters were unwilling to apply such harsh discipline themselves. His first intention was merely to rub a soothing ointment into her bruised and smarting buttocks, but the sight of her naked bottom as she bent over, and of the sweet young vertical smile she thus revealed, was too much for his self-control.

Later he became more interested in Miss Carron, who, he discovered, also whipped men in her punishment studio in midtown. He was amazed to discover that she had no idea her clients took sexual satisfaction in the process; she considered herself a sort of priestess, handing out punishments for the crimes they confessed to her. Indeed, she herself was still a virgin.

Smiler soon cured her of that, of course – both of her delusion and of her virginity.

His most curious encounter in New York, though, was with a girl whose name he never knew. He called her Hot Split. They met, if that is the word for it, on a very crowded elevated train running from downtown Manhattan up to the Bronx – that is to say, she was pressed very tightly against him, not face-to-face but with her pert young derrière thrust firmly into his groin:

I leaned forward and spoke into her ear, above the roar of the train, saying I wished to get past her. You’re blocking my passage, I said.

She turned and smiled directly into my face – our cheeks were practically touching – and said, Then it’s tit for tat!

I’m sure it was meaningless to those around us but to me it suddenly became devastatingly clear what she had in mind, for her fingers, hidden down there in the crush, were nimbly opening my flies and reaching for Iron Jack – who was already half living up to his name and, under her delicate schooling, was soon justifying it in a most shameless fashion; if people had moved, though, it would at once have become a most shame"ful fashion. I’m sure my heart missed several beats but what that young lady steno didn’t know about pleasuring a man’s plaything with the tips of her fingers wouldn’t be worth learning.

This delightful encounter, however, did not proceed at all as Smiler would have wished, though he described it with delightful candour and told it as a joke against himself.

His next encounters (also on a train, this time to New Orleans) were far more rewarding – sexually for him and financially for Alice and Ruthy, two high-class sporting girls who worked those luxurious turn-of-the-century trains that criss-crossed the continent. Those journeys took days and the cars were filled with men who had time on their hands, money in their pockets, and only one thought on their minds. They may have started out with several thoughts but once they’d caught a glimpse of Alice and Ruthy, they whittled it down to just one.

Smiler, of course, was ahead of them, for he never had more than that one thought in his mind anyway. Nor had Señor Obispu, his dapper and elegant fellow-passenger, who, once they had established that they each lived for one thing only, invited Smiler to stay at his house in the smartest area of the city. It didn’t take our young hero long to realize that he had to ‘sing for his supper.’ Specifically, he was there to seduce Señora Obispu, which he achieved by the ingenious use of a string hammock out in the garden. The Señora was not at all averse to the arrangement! And while the good lady of the house was thus distracted, her good man was free to seduce Tillie, the maid, and to play a strange, one-sided sex-game while teaching the piano to two young blind girls next door.

Naturally, both men took advantage of the huge diversity of commercial sex that was then on offer – from the famous Mahogany Hall, where all the girls were of a mahogany hue or darker, to the Four Quarters, which was probably the most exclusive house of pleasure in the whole of North America at that time.

Just before Smiler moved on, round about November, he tried his luck with Tillie, who responded eagerly to his advances. He discovered that she was, as we would say nowadays, a bondage freak. To be tied up or restrained in some way while a man mounted her and took his pleasure would blow her mind. He remembered a device called ‘the ecstasy machine’ at the Four Quarters:

The machine had, in fact, been converted into a kind of gymnastic horse for the support of a girl’s body in a position calculated first to inflame the passions of any red-blooded male then to allow him to gratify them in the most stimulating manner. The central spine of this ‘horse’ was what had originally been the upholstered backrail of the chaise-longue. The padding at the top of the sloping backrest now supported either her derrière or her belly, depending on whether she lay face-up or face-down. The actual sloping part of the backrest formed a cushion for her head, at the far end of the midrail. If she lay face-down, her bubbies hung temptingly one each side of the midrail. At the nearer end there were some jointed extensions, padded in velvet like everything else. These served as supports for her legs; they could be adjusted to an enormous number of positions – limited only by her anatomy and her client’s sexual imagination. If she lay on her back, they could hold her limbs high in the air, in a wide-open V. Or, at the other extreme – still with the girl on her back – they could hold her legs almost bent double beneath her. This had the exciting result that her pussy was thrust toward him, pouting and open, just begging for the touch of his questing tongue.

To complete the device (or the part of it designed to support the girl), there were up to a dozen strong leather straps designed to hold the her body fast on this elegant frame, no matter how vigorously her lover might thrust away at her spreadeagled charms. I couldn’t help thinking of Tillie when I saw them. How she would adore being rogered on something like that!

And so, as a grand finale to his time in New Orleans, he arranged to take her there and give her the treat of a lifetime. The episode really belongs to The Call of the Flesh but it was Smiler’s own wish that it should start this present volume instead, as a way of smoothing the continuity between the two – hence the rather abrupt opening to his text in this book.

By way of a tailpiece, I reproduce a page from Smiler’s diaries of that period. It consists of a page torn from the "New Orleans Blue Book, an exhaustive guide to the sporting houses of the city, annotated in his own hand. It shows what a dedicated hunter of cunny he was – and also that his memoirs do not recall one half, perhaps not even one tenth, of his amorous encounters.

Faye Rossignol

Bushey Arches

1995

Chapter 1

Before I left New Orleans, city of so many wonderful girls and memories, I took Tillie to the Four Quarters, to show her what the girls there called their ‘ecstasy machine.’ They meant it gave their clients ecstasy, of course, but in Tillie’s case I thought it might do wonders for her, too.

To recap: It was an ordinary-looking chaise-longue that could be taken apart into two sections, which could then be reassembled as a machine to enhance the pleasure of a copulating couple. The couch half had hydraulic devices that would remodel the upholstery to conform with the outlines of a girl on her hands and knees – with a large gap in the right location. A girl could lie beneath this couch with her mouth and throat on the inside of the gap, ready to give a right royal oral welcome to whatever might enter that way.

The other half, formed from the back and side rests, made a frame upon which a girl’s body could be arranged – and endlessly rearranged – for her partner’s maximum enjoyment. The side-rest formed the central spine, on which she lay; the back-rest, divided in two, formed supports at either end, one for her head and shoulders and the other for her derrière. It was all padded and covered in a deep, soft velvet. If the girl lay face down, her bubbies hung either side of the central spine, fully accessible; if she lay gazing at the stars – or, rather, at herself in the mirror on the ceiling – adjustable armatures for the support of her legs could be unfolded and fixed in almost any position that was anatomically possible. Little hydraulic pistons helped adjust her pussy to the perfect height to delight the questing male weapon. And, as a last refinement, there were straps on each ‘limb’ of these armatures to bind the girl’s limbs to them; there were other straps along the central spine, so that her body could be held in bondage, too.

It was this latter feature that I was sure would interest little Tillie. I remembered how, when Señor Obispu had surprised her on her hands and knees, searching for something under the bed, and had lifted her skirts and petticoats up over her back and fished out his rampant eye-opener for girls and whanged it into her like an old friend – how she had taken a fistful of her skirts and pulled them down tight to the bed, pinning herself to the iron frame and writhing with pleasure against the self-imposed bondage. I recalled, too, her delight when, having seduced me into her bedroom that same night, she went almost out of her mind with pleasure when I strapped her to her mattress with every belt and girdle cord she possessed. How, I wondered, would she respond to a machine like this?

Her rapture exceeded my wildest expectations. If she had been seven instead of seventeen and I had discovered Santa Claus’s grotto, she could not have entered that place with greater awe in her eyes and greater delight in her smile. And as I took apart the ordinary-looking chaise-longue and assembled the extraordinary-looking ecstasy machine, her eyes almost popped out of her head. She twigged its purpose at once, the moment she saw the pleasuring frame take shape; and when I pulled the stout leather straps from the niches in which they were furled – well, I feared she would have a seizure!

If there is anything more fascinating than the subject of female sexual pleasure – which, in my unthinking moments, I would deny – it could only be the variety of ways in which the darling girls strive to achieve it. Just think of my own experiences in the few short months since my landfall in New York. Think of Miss Carron, back in the Big Apple, who got paid by men to whip and birch them red-raw and who diddled herself silly during that part of the ritual where her victims were blindfolded and could not observe her. Or Hot Split, who rode the Third Avenue El all the way out to the Bronx during the peak of the rush hour each night, seducing men to enjoy her favours standing up, packed like anchovies, staring impassively into space all the while. Or, here in New Orleans, what about Señora Obispu, who turned her garden sun-hammock into her own private pleasuring machine in which she could lie face down, her belly a mere fraction of an inch above the belly of a man lying supine on the ground with his spermspouter notched almost the