By Rob Maynard

Chapter 5

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Oliver Murray Jr. woke up with a sudden start.

Usually, like most well-developed, healthy and alliterative 18 year old boys, he woke up with a bulging boner.

But today he woke up with a sudden start.

And with just a single name in his thoughts and on his lips.

"Bellerophon."

Reaching across the wide bed that his long-absent father had nevertheless remembered to send him as a birthday present (accompanied by a short hologram n which he said that he hoped his son would soon be putting it to good use - a typical lewd comment in Oliver's opinion), Olly roughly shook Roland awake.

"Ro!" he said quickly and urgently.

"Listen! I was dreaming last night."

Roland looked as if he was about to respond, but Olly silenced him with an impatient gesture.

"No, Ro - not one of those dreams… It was a dream about what's happening to us - and to Steve - er, Mr Petersen.

"What if all this is some sort of plot against us all? Maybe the someone who's at the back of all this stuff is someone we know?

"I've been thinking, and if there's anyone who might be able to help us work it all out it's Bellerophon.

"That boy's got a finger in every pie in the school and if anyone can tell us who's behind it all then it's him."

And, with that, Oliver's mind was firmly made up, in spite of all Roland's objections that Bellerophon Black III was a bully, a liar and a cheat who couldn't be trusted as far as you could throw him (an exercise best undertaken over a high drop, in which case there'd be dozens of Bette Midler High School boys eagerly lining up to do the dirty deed in person.)

And so it was that Oliver Murray Jr. set off for school that morning with an attitude that was - if not quite optimistic - at least more purposeful than any he'd had for the preceding 24 hours.

Miss Radcliffe-Hall woke up with a sudden start.

Not, of course, that she'd actually been asleep.

But she had been entirely lost in a reverie of her own.

This morning, thanks to Mr Gaveston's failure to find a proper replacement for Steve Petersen, she had once again had to cross town from her beloved Navratilova Academy to teach the absent teacher's history classes.

Not, of course, that she actually knew anything about history, unless it involved famous women of her own persuasion like Sappho, Queen Christina or Eleanor Roosevelt.

No, Miss Radcliffe-Hall only knew about - and could only teach - the operation and maintenance of heavy duty machinery which, while it might enthral Navratilova Academy's girls (who had a disproportionate propensity to enter the workplace as truck drivers or steel welders), seemed to be making little impact on the Bette Midler Boys whose ambitions led them more towards careers in arts administration, the ballet or floristry.

And so, achieving little in the way of interested feedback from her temporary pupils, Miss Radcliffe-Hall had allowed her mind to wander (though at least that was a change for the better from the girls' school where she was quite notorious for allowing her hands to wander.)

She had amused herself, indeed, by making her somewhat complex blackboard drawings of heavy machinery into fantastic Heath-Robinson creations, many parts of them deliberately made to resemble the female genitalia.

The boys of her temporary school could be relied upon, of course, not to be able to distinguish a vagina from a vacuum cleaner.

And even if, perchance, any of them did spot her little joke, Miss Radcliffe-Hall was confident that they'd be so traumatised by the experience that reporting her to Mr Gaveston would be the last thing on their minds.

So it was that she dreamed on, mouthing her familiar words about pressures per square centimetre and alloy-specific densities, while all the time her brain was really focussing on the ingenious design of her newest five-dimensional vibrator and the amusing use she'd be putting it to later that evening with her close friend and colleague, Navratilova Academy's Head of Swedish Studies Miss Bernhardt.

And so lost was Miss Radcliffe-Hall in her erotic fantasies of Miss B's cute clitoris, luscious labia and exceptionally vigorous vulva that she completely failed to notice that, right at the back of the class, two of her pupils were engaged in an earnest conversation.

In fact, by that stage of the class, it was actually coming to an end.

"But please, Belly", pleaded Oliver, quite oblivious to the fact that using the commonly abbreviated form of his classmate's name was a virtual guarantee of not achieving the desired purpose of the conversation, "you've got to help us."

Bellerophon Black III stared back at Olly, desperately trying to feign a concern he did not feel in the slightest.

"Of course I'd try to help if I could", he said.

"But I really don't know anything about this whole thing at all - and, quite honestly, it's not something that I want to get involved in either."

Olly's heart sank.

If Belly Black - a boy known to possess the fewest moral qualms in the whole of Bette Midler High - wasn't prepared to help him, then who would?

Suddenly, the future for Olly and his friends looked once again utterly bleak.

Roland woke up with a sudden start.

Of course, in reality robots don't actually sleep at all, but as their programming is designed to replicate most aspects of human behaviour it naturally includes several simulated sleep-sessions throughout the day.

And when Roland's bio-episolar-chronometer alerted him to the fact that it was 2pm, he got up and prepared himself for his important expedition.

He'd known from the start that trying to convince Oliver than Bellerophon was the very last person to consult on this whole business would be a waste of time..

But he'd had a better idea.

If, as he suspected, Bellerophon was somehow behind the attack on Olly and Steve Petersen, then he'd try to get the proof from another source entirely.

Someone who knew more about Bellerophon Black than anyone else at all.

Cyprian.

Forty minutes later Roland found himself sitting in the luxurious sitting room of Bellerophon's apartment.

The owner was, of course, still at school, but Cyprian had welcomed Roland and made him welcome - hardly surprisingly considering that, apart from "happy", the standard robotic default settings included "welcoming" and "accommodating" (which Cyprian, thanks to Bellerophon's tinkering with his programme now most definitely was - though probably not in the sense that his designers had intended.)

After a few moments of desultory conversation, Roland broached the subject on his mind.

"I expect you know about the trouble that Mr Petersen and Oliver seem to have gotten into lately", he said.

Cyprian nodded sympathetically and murmured something about how sorry he was to have heard what had happened.

"Well," continued Roland, "I'm just trying my best to help by asking all the other robot mentors if they've noticed anyone at school behaving odd lately.

"I mean, with all our programmes and sensors we're far more likely to spot something out of the ordinary than those humans, aren't we?"

He gave a nervous laugh.

Meanwhile Cyprian stood up.

"You look rather nervous, Roland", he said.

"Let's try to relax a little and maybe something will occur to us then.

"I'll go and fix us something to drink.

"Meanwhile you can take a look at this. It's an old movie from over 200 years ago that's got the hottest looking hero I've ever seen in my life.

"It's called Robocop."

With that, Cyprian picked up a remote control and flicked on the interactive ultra wide 7-dimensional movie screen that almost filled one of the walls.

But, as Cyprian flicked the switch to start Robocop, what Roland couldn't see was that he was also flicking a second, small red switch on the same control unit.

And that, quite unknown to Roland, was a switch which Bellerophon Black III had devised to override Cyprian's settings so as to turn him, on request, from a model robot-mentor who acted completely in accordance with the sexual rules and limits specified by BOYS into a rampaging sexual predator and addict, the willing accomplice to - and just as often the victim of - his master's outrageous debauchery.

As Cyprian hit that little red button, the effect on Roland was instantaneous.

An electrical charge seemed to pass through the entire length of his body, energising him, stimulating him and filling him with the most peculiar sensations.

And there was one very peculiar sensation in particular, quite unlike anything that Roland had ever, it seemed, felt before.

An odd tingling somewhere in his lower back that seemed to be getting more pronounced by the second.

That, of course, was only to be expected.

For what Cyprian had done was to re-sensitise Roland's crypto-cellular hyperfeeds that replicated human nerve endings and made him sensitive to touch.

Unless robots had a special need for them, hyperfeeds were always de-sensitised at the manufacturing stage. But, even though inactive, they were nevertheless always left in place just in case a need for them should ever arise.

This afternoon, in particular, Cyprian had re-sensitised one particular set of hyperfeeds.

The ones in Roland's exquisitely formed rectum.

And, as Cyprian set down again on the couch next to him, it was as though Roland no longer had any control over his own desires.

It was as though he had an itch, just down there… As if nothing else mattered and that the only thing that could alleviate the discomfort was some deep, heavy massage…

Personal massage…

Internal massage…

And so it was hardly surprising that, as Cyprian roughly pushed his cruel robotic hand down the back of Roland's pants, Roland's ass simultaneously seemed to take on a life entirely of its own, pushing upwards and backwards so as to eagerly meet the first of several of Cyprian's probing fingers half way.

© Rob Maynard / HMBoys.com 2003

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