School for Seduction, Page 2

  His eyes could scratch lines in the walls, thought Alphonse. Roderick composed himself. Somewhat.

  “We have received disturbing reports of late. Too many to dismiss. A barber in Montmarte has debauched another man. A fascist lawyer of some standing. It’s a scandal, and the barber won’t stop telling everyone. Last week, the son of one of our instructors was seduced by a middle-aged widow. In a grocery. Seduced!”

  “Well, after all, Paris – “

  “She used the Luxembourg Stratagem! There is no mistake! We have a rash of seductions across the city, and none of these amateurs are known to us. What’s worse, far worse, is men are falling prey. Men.” His eyes bore into Alphonse. “That’s clearly against our charter!”

  “There are whores on rue de Lappe seducing their customers. A suffragette seduced a policeman and escaped from custody at the Palais de Justice. And with my own eyes I saw an atheist seduce a nun,” said Renaldo. “It’s chaos.”

  “The harm is done. Now we will always have to guard our flanks against ambush,” said Roderick. “We were the only hunters. Now you’ve taught the game to shoot.”

  “I swear, I haven’t told anybody – “

  Renaldo interrupted Alphonse with another kick. Roderick leaned over him.

  “Erich.”

  “Erich?”

  “Your friend and companion.”

  “Erich?”

  “There’s no one else. This all began when he graduated,” said Renaldo.

  Roderick stared into Alphonse. “We are godlings of pleasure. We have inherited finger exercises from Leonardo da Vinci, psychological ploys from Caligula, words from Freud, and I won’t see our knowledge squandered and lost by two rutting, careless fools!”

  Roderick pulled out a knife from his robes, the blade serrated, nasty, a little something from the Proche-Orient. It hung in the air, Alphonse staring at it, silent, waiting. Not the life he dreamed, but not so terrible either.

  Roderick passed the knife to Renaldo, put both his hands on Alphonse’s head, fingers clamped, pushing hard on him. “Look into my eyes.”

  “No, please.”

  “Listen to me. You will take this knife and punish the one who has betrayed us. He does not deserve to enjoy the fruits of what we have taught him.”

  “Don’t.”

  “You will find him, and you will cut away his manhood. Do you hear me? You will cut off his manhood before his eyes. You will show no mercy.”

  He slept little, could not find rest. Everywhere he went there seemed to be gratification, couples sneaking off to bed, to storerooms, closets, alleyways, but he wandered without joy. Alphonse did not want to find him, hoped never to see him again, but could not stay away from their favourite haunts, could not refrain from asking for him.

  He searched bistros, cafés, clubs, parks. He left messages, castigating himself for it. He thought of times together, little jokes and escapades, and it cut like glass. Regret threatened to overwhelm him, regret for something he hadn’t done but felt sure would happen. But Erich was not easy to find. He must have realized there were those who meant him harm.

  Alphonse walked back and forth through the city. Found staying in his room preferable, but impossible. The evenings stretched on, and he began to hope he would never hear news of Erich, but then, his usual luck. A waiter had seen him, been given a hotel name for Alphonse. Alphonse went to the hotel, gave his name, was told Erich had recently left. Alphonse turned to go, relieved, but the desk clerk pressed a slip of paper in his hand with an address on it.

  Alphonse waited for evening, slowly advanced his footsteps, found the building. He walked up to the fourth floor, tried the door. Unlocked. He cursed, entered. A respectable apartment. No one home? He glanced through the rooms.

  “Alphonse.”

  He turned, Erich in front of him, smiling.

  “No.”

  “No? Are you not happy to see me?”

  Alphonse pulled out the wicked knife, hand trembling, dropped it. He kneeled, put his hand around the blade.

  “Alphonse?”

  “Erich. You have to leave. Now.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m in his power. Roderick sent me.”

  His eyes wide. “To kill me?”

  “To castrate you. Please, get away. Run away.”

  Instead, smiling again. He took off his cap, rubbed his fingers roughly through his slicked back hair. It fell over his ears, almost to the shoulder. Alphonse stared. The knife tight in his hand. Erich took off his jacket, began unbuttoning his shirt. Alphonse still stared, not understanding. The shirt dropped to the floor, revealing a tightly wrapped linen sheet beneath. Erich unwound it, freeing two plump mounds of flesh, teardrop-shaped, with coral centres. Next hips wriggled, and pants slinked slowly down across them, down to the floor, divulging lush curves. White knickers, tight, barely reaching the contours of the inner thighs, and cut low, left little hidden, revealed there was no manhood certainly, nothing masculine.

  “Call me Erika.”

  The knife dipped. Alphonse felt a great release. The compulsion left him. “Incredible.” He shook his head. Erika beckoned with a finger. The knife rattled on the floor, forgotten. He rushed forward, a tight embrace, she covered his mouth with hers. They both pulled at his clothes. He lost himself in her mouth, breathed into her. His shirt, then trousers, the rest. He slid fingers like hooks into her knickers, eased them off trembling thighs. A pinch, she returned it. He rubbed her hips, then upwards, she slid her fingers down his stomach. Such eyes, he thought, and more. A flick of her tongue. He pushed her back on the sofa, her legs bent, raised, and slid his hands along the underside of her thighs until the crooks of his hands nestled behind her knees...

  A bright moon, dark fields. The train to Marseilles. A window, moonlight. The world so quiet. The clack of the wheels on the track. Under the seat one suitcase, one rucksack. Outside, everything asleep. A love affair, thought Alphonse. Doomed, of course. But, still. He looked at her, the slight rise and fall of her chest, the line of her neck, her face framed by loose strands of hair. She will leave marks on me, he thought. Sleepy, she shifted, touched the back of his head, rested her head on his shoulder. Watched her shadowy features fly over the darkened landscape.

  “I’ve been thinking. Thinking I may start a new school.”

  Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this book, would you please consider taking a moment to leave a review at your favourite retailer?

  About the Author

  As a child Jeffrey Solmundson was led astray by comic books into all sorts of other strange and wayward tales in various mediums, leading to an incurable fascination with narrative. In his spare time he likes to pull stories apart and put them back together again.

  Solmundson has at times been a public relations rep, newspaper editor, magazine writer, tree planter, college radio station deejay and an amateur detective feigning blindness.

  He lives in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada. All in all, not a bad place to live and work. Summer is wonderful. As for its counterpart, the 19th century settlers who perished leaving behind nothing but shallow graves and their diaries, said it best: “Winters are hard.”

  Visit his web site at https://jeffreysolmundson.wordpress.com.

  Other works by Jeffrey Solmundson

  If you liked “School for Seduction” check out the story collection “Long ago, far away.”

  “Love will eat your heart like an apple...”

  So begins a strange quest in “For Love of Three Oranges,” a dark fable from Spain about the sweetness and pain of living in the world. Also a frog prince, an ogre and an alchemist.

  “Long ago, far away” brings together ten tales of murder, betrayal, bad luck and other disappointments.

  Brimming with energy and inventiveness, these richly imagined stories are at turns hilarious, at turns unsettling, often playful, always captivating and never quite what you're expecting.

  Also in this collection: a chilling campfire
tale, a murder mystery, a disastrous courtship between a frog and a mouse, a nightmare with no end, unrequited loves, regrettable moments and dubious intentions.

  Available at all major book retailers. Find out more at the author’s website https://jeffreysolmundson.wordpress.com.