Copyright© 2016 by Gordon Johnson
Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Reginald was an unwanted only child, deprived of love by his parents, dependent on his innate cleverness to cope with life. He goes through school as a loner, but encouraged in his learning by his teachers. They persuade the school trust fund to help him get to university, and it is there that our story begins.
Reginald Robertson, known always as ‘Reg’, was astounded to find that he really was attending his first year at university. These new circumstances, in new surroundings, however brought little practical difference from his former social status in high school in his home town, an English coastal borough.
He was still a loner.
This introvert lifestyle was one brought about by many factors, one being his own determination to study hard and get as much education as possible, to the exclusion of all else, and in particular people.
His peculiar way of living resulted from a background of an only child, in relative poverty, and a family circumstance that did not give him the loving support that was needed to perform well in social circles at school.
Throughout his school years his clothes were either out of date or well-worn and ill-fitting, through mostly being second-hand, bought in charity shops by his widowed mother. They were clean, though. His mother insisted on that minimum standard.
She had her own problems, and didn’t want his on top. He had arrived by accident, for she and her late husband had no desire for children. He was superfluous to her own life. His social ineptitude at school was of little concern to her; she didn’t want to know. She never appeared at school events unless it was a legal requirement, so neither did Reg.
How, then, did he manage to get to university?
The high school possessed a well-financed bursary fund built up by generous donations from local philanthropists for more than a hundred years. It had the specific task of helping children of poor families to better themselves. The existence of the fund was common knowledge, but in modern times there had been a social stigma attached to being a recipient – it labelled your family as poor - so it was seldom applied for. Most of the poorer families ignored the fund, and not just because of their pride in surviving without help. They envisaged facing additional financial costs beyond those covered by the fund, and didn’t want to face that problem.
The lack of demand meant low expenditure, and resulted in more capital to earn income, building the fund up further.
Reg’s family was one of those that did not want to use the fund, but his mother’s reason was different. No-one in their family had ever gone to university, and so why should Reg be any different? He could get a factory job like everyone else in their local community, his mother felt.
Fortunately for the young man, his teachers saw him differently. They viewed his educational potential with interest, and spoke about it to the headmaster. He in turn brought it up with the trustees of that bursary fund; asking their opinion about gifted children in that position. The Trustees enquired which university he might wish to attend, and contacted it, explaining the position.
The university responded sympathetically, and offered finance from their own discretionary funds for a living allowance for the student, assuming the student matched the academic entrance requirements.
The Headmaster was accordingly informed that the high school fund would cover his pupil’s tuition fees at the university, and the latter body would make its own contribution towards accommodation and living costs. This would enable him to survive while he was on his course, provided he got the results required for entry. The operational word was “survive”, as the allowance was not particularly generous. There was always an underlying assumption of a family contribution, whether it existed or not.
The limited finance offered, however, delighted Reg, and allowed his mother to agree to his attendance at the university. That was why he was here; and why he was studying hard. He again had neither the time, nor the free cash, for dalliance with girls.
So he was surprised when a girl with a fairly plain face but with a good-looking body came up to him after one of the English Literature classes they both took.
“Reg? Can I introduce myself? I am Frances LeBrun. You seem to be very au fait with the subject, so I wondered if you would like to come to my house to join us in study sessions? I am hoping you will see this as profitable for everyone.”
He looked at her with more interest. She was very bland in her features, the face a bit flat, but with bright intelligent eyes and a mouth that asked to be kissed. She was definitely not what you would call a ‘looker’, but obviously better off than himself, by the good quality clothes she wore, though the clothes looked not new and not very fashionable either. She was not as tall as himself, but definitely one of the taller girls in their year. One of her words finally struck his mind as unexpected.
“Us? Who is the ‘us’?”
“Oh. Several of us in the same English class. We share other classes, too. I was listening to you in class when the lecturer picked you out. You seem to have a good grasp of the authors we were discussing, and their works.”
“I am a bit puzzled ... Frances.” He had remembered her name. “What would be the point of me joining this study group?”
“Mutual improvement, Reg. We all benefit from each other’s abilities.”
“Hmm ... I seem to be getting on fine on my own, Francis. I am not sure that I would gain much value from participating.”
She looked at him as if he was stupid. “Reg. It is a lot more than simply English. Learning is a lot broader, you know. You are not good at social interaction, are you?”
He stiffened in shock, then hung his head a little, at this recognition of his failure to get along with people. “You may be right, a bit,” he admitted.
“It is a lot more than ‘a bit’, Reg. Your social skills suck, my lad. We can help you with that, while you are helping us with English and other subjects. I have been observing you since the start of term, Reg. You are intellectually clever, but damn backward when it comes to people-to-people skills.”
He cringed at that assessment. “I am not THAT bad!”
“Yes, you are,” Frances challenged him. “Name one friend you have made here in the last month since the term started.”
“hmm ... okay, you have me there, but it was my own choice.”
“Not a single friend, Reg? We need to change that. Our study group is your chance to improve things, my boy. We can work on it in private. Now, are you willing to give it a shot, or are you too afraid?”
“Oh, all right, but on conditions. We must both have an input to the discussions. I am not going to be trained like a dog. However, for the moment you are the boss. Where is your house, and when does the group meet?”
She gave him the address, saying, “We hang out there whenever we have a bunch of spare time; maybe an afternoon free, any evening that suits, or any time at weekends. Just phone and say when you are coming.”
“Uh ... I don’t have a phone, Frances.”
“Don’t tell me: nobody to phone?”
“Yes, and no money for one either.”
“Not even to phone your folks?”
“My mother only. She is not interested in my life at university, or anywhere else, for that matter. She didn’t even want me to go, until we got grant help. That allowed her to get rid of me without it costing her anything, so she finally agreed to it happening.
No-one in my family has ever been to university before. They could never afford it, so it was not on their radar.”
“Ah. That explains a lot. Presumably you don’t have transport, either?”
He said defensively, “I like walking. I always walk anywhere I want to go, except long distance. I use the bus or train, then. I have a bike at home, but didn’t think I would need it at uni. It is ancient, as well; almost an antique. It was my father’s.”
Frances told him, “I finish classes at one tomorrow; short day. Are you the same?”
“I think so. Yes. Why?”
“I can give you a lift. Meet me at the entrance to the refectory car park, and we’ll take it from there.” Frances was marvelling at having got Reg to talk so much about himself, for he was notorious for saying as little as possible, except in class. She was happy to get him to agree to the lift in her car.
Reg followed these instructions, and he was standing there, looking forlorn, when she appeared, breezily walking towards him. “Right, Reg. Let’s find my car, wherever I managed to stick it today. This stupid car park is too bloody small. I can never get the same space two days in succession.”
He went along with her as she searched the rows of cars in the tree-shrouded student car park Eventually she found her vehicle, almost hemmed in by two others that were badly parked. They managed to ease the front doors open and squeeze inside. Now Frances had to run the car forward a few inches at a time, trying to get out of her space without scratching either side of her own car, or that of her neighbours.
Reg was afraid to get out and guide her, as he had no driving skills, so was unable to recognise what directions to signal. He also didn’t want to be crushed between cars if he got in the way.
Frances explained her feelings about the car park as she manoeuvred. “You can see why no-one brings a new car here. Too easily scratched, and then bang goes a K off the value. There; I think that’s us clear of my space.”
She now manoeuvred carefully down the narrow lane between two rows of cars. It used to be a wide lane, until frustrated students began to park in a line down the middle. That centre parking started with a couple of motorcycles and soon developed to small cars and developed from there.
A couple of turns brought her to the exit, and from thence on to the university road. She joined the line of cars going to the main road. Sitting at the next junction, waiting for cars ahead to get out of the way, she asked, “Have you learned to drive yet?”
“Drive? When I have no car, and not likely to have for years? No way!”
“If you learn while a student, you can usually get a student rate. Much cheaper than when you graduate.”
“I still can’t afford the lessons. I am living on a basic grant, with no extras.”
She ignored him as she had spotted a chance to get out, and moved into the new traffic stream.
Once she was happy with her position in the traffic, she returned her attention to him.
“Sorry, Reg. I did not have my ears working while my eyes and brain were negotiating that roundabout. It is damn difficult joining the traffic stream. You have to watch for some guy leaving at the previous exit, and snaffle that space in the rat pack before it gets filled. All these bloody students leaving at the one time; it is crazy.” It didn’t seem to occur to her that she was one of the crazies, but Reg reflected on human perceptions being self-centred. She got back to speaking to him. “What were you saying?”
“Just cash problems, so no driving lessons.”
“Hmm. How good are you, really, at English, and our other subjects?”
“I manage without too much bother. I had good entrance qualifications, and the start of this first year seems mainly some more of the same. Repetitive. I think deliberately so, to make sure everyone has the basics sorted, or can be put back on track.”
“Well, a few of the others are not doing so well. Perhaps their schools were not as good as yours at getting the basics pounded in.” She gave it a thought. “Maybe they could pay you to tutor them for a while? Ever thought of that?”
“No. I didn’t do that in high school; no-one ever asked; so it never struck me that I could do such a thing here. I assumed everybody would be at about the same level.”
“Never assume anything, Reg. Some of us got in by the skin of our teeth, just scraping together the scores for entrance here, helped by tutors paid for by Daddy.”
“Oh. We can talk about it, I suppose.”
“Yes. Be prepared to talk, Reg. You need to do a lot of talking at university, chum. One of the jobs of university is to turn you into a useful member of society, not just a recluse. Talking is part of it. You need to lose your Yorkshire accent, for a start. Lots of folk don’t understand the dialect.”
“I don’t have an accent.”
“Everybody has an accent, chum. You just don’t notice your own.”
“Really?” It came to him as a surprise. “Never thought about that. You may be right. I HAVE noticed various people in my classes with a range of accents. It didn’t occur to me that I had one, too.”
“Nothing actually wrong with accents, Reg, as long as you speak clearly enough to be understood. Avoid “aye-up”, “Yes, love”, and things like that, if you can.”
“Okay. I can do that ... I think, provided I think about it.”
“Fine. It is just a start, Reg. You have a brain, and are willing to use it, academically. I just want you to also use it in the social context. Is that too much to ask ... woops! Bloody oil tanker getting in my way. Let me shut up for a while ... want to get there in one piece.”
Eventually she swung off the main road into a side road, then several turns before drawing up on the drive of a large three-storey house. She turned to her passenger, announcing, “We’re here, Reg.”
He exited the car with trepidation, expecting to face her parents, or at the very least, her mother. Frances put her key in the door, turned the handle, and entered; not so much as “I’m home, Mum!” came from her lips. Reg was surprised.
He followed her in, briefcase in hand. He wondered how she carried her books and documents. “Aren’t your parents home?” he asked, cautiously, afraid to put a foot wrong.
“Nope. This is not my parents’ residence. It is mine, during my time at Uni. They live 70 miles away.”
Reg got a bad feeling. “So who owns it?” he wanted to know.
“My parents do, or my Dad, or his Company; I am not certain which. It is part of their property portfolio, so they are happy to see me using it. Dad reckons it will appreciate in value over the three years I am here, so having me to live in it and alert him to any repairs and maintenance questions saves him having to pay someone to keep an eye on it. Short-term tenants can also be a problem, legally and otherwise.
Empty houses are more liable to be targeted by vandals, as well, so with me being here, the signs of occupancy, such as curtains on the windows, a car in the garage, and lights on from time to time, help as well. It is a win-win situation for everyone.”
Reg was starting to feel a little uncomfortable at this revelation. “So there is no adult supervision of what goes on here?”
“How do you mean, adults? We are all adults here, aren’t we, Reg?”
Hoisted by his own petard, Reg grunted, “I suppose so. I hadn’t really thought about it. I have never been seen as an adult before now.”
Frances almost replied, “Why ask the question, then?”, but she refrained, letting it pass. Reg was still feeling his way around people, after all.
“Let me show you around, Reg, so you will know where all the essentials are to be found, especially the ‘necessary’, as it was once called.”
This seemed both sensible and logical to him, so he agreed, and followed her as she showed him where the kitchen, toilet and bathroom were to be found on the ground floor. Then she proudly showed him the living room. “This is where we hold most of our study/tutoring encounters, but we can use a couple of the bedrooms for more intensive one-to-one sessions where that will help. There are times you don’t want interruptions while trying to cram your head with important information. Some students might be more boisterous than others in the house, and cause unwanted problems. If that happens, I may have to ban them from returning.”
Reg could see the sense in that, so nodded his understanding.
“Next door, we have the dining room. It is often the case that coming here straight from the university, you don’t have the opportunity to get a bite to eat on the way, so often it is easier to bring in a pizza and heat it up, or even fish and chips if that is your preference – as long as you turn on the extractor fan in the kitchen, to remove the intense aroma of vinegar, if the shop throws that on.”
“I’m okay with pizza, Frances,” he insisted. “I sometimes make my own at home. Mum isn’t into fancy foods, she says, but it is just that she can’t cope with anything other than basic meals, like bangers and mash, or mince. I learned a bit at school, when us boys were given some simple cookery lessons, to counter the gender bias in education. I liked it.”
“Good for you, Reg. Shows a bit of independent thinking on your part. Now, if you didn’t manage lunch, how do you fancy a pizza? We can defrost one and shove it in the oven.”
“Sure, Frances, that sounds fine.” He wondered about the others he expected to meet here.
They went through to the kitchen, where she opened the freezer and dug out a pizza. “Pepperoni O.K. with you, Reg?”
He acknowledged that it was so, and she popped it into the microwave cooker long enough to thaw it, and set up the oven for the advised cooking temperature.
“Won’t take long to thaw, then a quarter of an hour in the oven should do it, unless you like yours pretty crisp?”
“I prefer it in an edible condition, Frances, so 15 minutes sounds right.”
Reg was still wondering when the other students would arrive, so asked her. She willingly replied,”Today, Reg, it is just you and me. I didn’t want to scare you with a crowd.”
He spoke confidently. “Nice thought, Frances, but I believe I am strong enough to cope.” He sounded less sure as he repeated quietly, “I think.”
“Well, we can see tomorrow, once I know who wants to join us. I will keep it to those I believe will be suitable, to begin with. People like me. No man-eaters.”
Reg heard these words, and came to the conclusion that it would be all girls, to begin with. He agreed with her assessment, as he was uncomfortable with other boys around. They tended to be competitive, he thought. He was not into competitive learning; it achieved little, he was certain.
The pair settled at the table in the dining room to munch their pizza once it had been cut into triangular pieces. Discussion was muted due to full mouths, but eventually they had eaten enough to keep them happy. Reg went off to the bathroom to wash his fingers at the washbasin, and Frances quickly joined him. They stood companionably together as they cleaned their fingers of the pizza residue.
Reg asked, “What do you want to go over, Frances?”