By Rob Maynard

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Chapter 3

Bellerophon Black III loved himself.

That is to say that he truly, madly, deeply loved every aspect - every single individual part - of himself.

That unwavering devotion began with the most basic and fundamental element of his identity - his very name.

Bellerophon seemed to him to be absolutely right, a true stroke of genius on the part of his parents. It was a name that conveyed an image that was, he was convinced, absolutely him: dark, mysterious, something of the night - sexy.

He'd once looked the name up and found that the original Bellerophon had been a hero of Greek mythology, remembered if at all these days as the rider of the winged horse Pegasus. Bellerophon Black III had thought that equine association incredibly apt - after all, wasn't it widely known that he himself was hung like the proverbial horse?

In fact, he considered, the only drawback of his first name was that it sometimes encouraged a few foolhardy boys to abbreviate it behind his back to "Belly" - though they invariably and quickly thereafter came to regret it. Bellerophon himself always preferred to be addressed not by his name but as "Sir" (in a tone that definitely implied that the "S" was upper-case) and he had, at least, managed to programme Cyprian's software accordingly.

His surname Black also struck him as particularly appropriate. It was, of course, the colour of the night and the dark and was, moreover, often associated too with The One… the Lord of Evil… the Prince of Darkness. Of course, hardly anyone in the 23rd century still believed in such things, but Bellerophon still did. He knew it was all true… He just knew…

In truth, Bellerophon Black was the quintessence and epitome of all the preceding members of his dreadful and notorious dynasty.

Admittedly he hadn't seen his father - Bellerophon II - for several years and had absolutely no idea of his whereabouts, if he still, that is, had any. But he knew full well that his paternal grandfather, the original Bellerophon, was, against all the odds, still very much alive and kicking (as far as the strait jacket allowed physical movement, of course) in the Strom Thurmond Home for the Criminally Maladjusted.

But it wasn't just his own name that Bellerophon Black III treasured.

He was also more than a little pleased with his physical appearance. Quite apart from the aforementioned dick of monstrous proportions, Bellerophon was devilishly attractive - and very hot - in a way that certainly made him stand out in any crowd. It was only when a new superficially infatuated acquaintance was able to take a longer, deeper look into his appropriately black eyes that they often sensed something that was seriously amiss. And those who failed to work that out at that stage usually did so later, though often, by then, in some considerable pain.

So, all in all, the fact that Bellerophon Black III loved himself was a good thing.

Because no-one else did - unless you counted his robot mentor Cyprian whose programme had been modified by his master so as to allow him to do all sorts of things which the wise members of the Board of Youth Sexuality (BOYS) had officially and expressly forbidden, under threat of severe punishment, between young men and their machines.

And now, as Bellerophon Black III surveyed the world around him, he was happy.

True, there'd been something of a cloud hanging over him for the past few weeks after he'd learned that the interfering history teacher Mr Petersen had been asking questions and collecting evidence about some of the more questionable (and pleasurable) activities that Bellerophon had been getting up to with some of his more easily intimidated classmates.

But that, it seemed, had now been completely dealt with.

Mr Petersen had been suspended from school.

Bellerophon and Cyprian had ensured that a whole line of boys would be prepared, rather than face Bellerophon's wrath or, even worse, his oversized, ass-splitting dick, to say that Mr Petersen had made sexual approaches to them. In fact, one or two were even ready to say that he'd not just approached them but had actually come in uninvited through the back door.

So it was hard to see now how the teacher would, in such circumstances, ever be allowed back into Bette Midler High at all. Far more likely that he'd be joining grandpa, hoped Bellerophon, in Strom Thurmond.

There were, admittedly, a few details that needed a final reckoning.

He would certainly, for instance, need to do something about that goody-goody Oliver Murray Jr. who'd probably been helping Mr Petersen collect the evidence against him.

For now, Bellerophon was content to enjoy his triumph.

But, if all went according to plan, Oliver Murray would soon - very soon - be regretting the day he'd ever crossed swords with Bellerophon Black.

Roland looked happy.

Of course, in one way that was only to be expected. To help them in their role of mentoring and boosting their young masters' confidence, all BOYS's robots were all designed so that their default mode was "happy".

And so, as far as anyone could see at that moment, on the outside Roland looked his usual cheerful self.

Inside, however, it was a different matter.

Roland had, admittedly, expected all along that today - Olly's official induction into the world of adult sexuality - would be a stressful one for both of them.

But even he, who knew far more of Olly's intimate secrets than anyone else, had been surprised by the boy's demeanour on his return home from school that afternoon.

Whereas the first thing Olly did as a rule when arriving home was to find and greet Roland, today he had just rushed in through the door, slamming it violently behind him, and locked himself away in his room - their room - for the next two hours.

And when he did eventually emerge it was clear that something was very wrong indeed.

"It's Mr Petersen", he admitted at last, looking as close to tears as Roland had ever seen him in the time they'd been together (with the possible exception of the evening they'd spent playing with an over-sized butt plug that they'd found in an otherwise empty school locker.)

"We've been told he's not coming back to school.

"Ever.

"I don't think I'll ever see him again…"

And with that, Olly had burst into tears - big, round dramatic ones that had fallen slowly from his eyes and rolled right down his cheeks in a way that even Joan Crawford (whose old movies still featured regularly on the QueenTV channel) would have envied.

It took a long time to console the stricken boy.

A very long time.

No hugs, caresses or kisses seemed able to ease his intense heartbreak.

And so they stayed there in the darkening gloom, boy and machine, both in their own ways ineffably sad.

Only the sharp ringing tone of the Murrays' holo-phone eventually caused Roland - whose programming explicitly forbade him to ignore such a stimulus, whatever the circumstances - to leave the room.

He returned, though, within just a few minutes.

"Oliver", he said, with a note of some urgency in his voice.

"Olly!

"We have to go out. Now!

"That was Mr Petersen calling - and he wants to see you at his apartment in half an hour!"

It was dark by the time that Olly and Roland found Mr Petersen's place.

It was cold, too, but such was Olly's excitement at being summoned to see his hero - though he couldn't imagine why - that he didn't feel it at all.

As they went in through the apartment block's door and headed for the elevator, the boy turned once again to his closest friend.

"Are you sure it was him, Roland? What exactly did he say?"

For the fifth time in just 30 minutes, Roland recalled the brief conversation he'd had with Mr Petersen.

"He said he was in trouble, Olly, and he needed your help. He couldn't tell me then but said he'd explain it all to you when you arrived."

As the elevator doors opened on the 38th floor and Olly and Roland emerged into a bright, wide and spacious corridor, they found themselves directly opposite the door of Apartment 38-G.

Mr Petersen's place, according to what he'd told Roland earlier.

The door was ajar and, beyond it, the living room lights were on.

Olly knocked.

Nothing.

He tried again.

Nothing.

Cautiously pushing the door wide open, the two of them entered the apartment.

"Mr Petersen!"

Olly's voice carried all through the place but there was no response.

He moved cautiously into the living room, followed by his friend.

Mr Petersen sure had a nice place. The furnishings were very tasteful in a deep red and gilt sort of way and there was a particularly impressive collection of artistic male nudes on one of the walls.

Just the sort of place Olly had imagined his teacher would live in.

He crossed the living room to a closed door and was just about to go into what he guessed must be Mr Petersen's bedroom when a deep voice behind him startled him.

"And what exactly are you doing here?"

Olly spun around.

Framed in the doorway from the hall was a large man.

Clearly a strong, powerful man.

And a man dressed in the uniform of a Board of Youth Sexuality enforcement officer.

"Oliver Murray Jr… I am placing you under arrest as a co-conspirator with Steven Eric Petersen in the contravention of BOYS statute 61, section 3, which forbids sexual activity between a boy under the age of 18 and any person in authority over him."

Olly's brain reeled.

He could feel his legs starting to give way under him.

At the same instant Roland's nano-circuits came dangerously close to critical overload.

And a couple of miles away, on the other side of the city, Bellerophon Black III's smile grew even wider than before.

© Rob Maynard / HMBoys.com 2003 - 2007

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