A writer, he had called himself. Melanie would not quite describe it as literature what was in his book he had given her. There were many other descriptions that would be more fitting but it wasn't one of them. Colourful, it was. Many of the words were. Some she had never seen before in print. Blunt, yes. Stark, indeed. Explicit was certainly a more appropriate summerisation. Detailed too it was in its narrative. It was very graphic in its portrayals and sketches. Essentially it was presented as fictional stories, whether or not they were based upon fact, presented memoirs about Andrew Nailor, presumably the author.<br/><br/>The underlying theme were his sexual encounters if not fantasies or pure figments of his imagination. The 18 year old blonde had never seen nor read, even if she dared, anything like it before. She was lying on the grass in a remote part of the park that was between her house and the quaint cottage of the author. She was lying on her front with her feet up in the air. Still wearing her school uniform, Melanie had gone there the following day after her classes had finished. 'The life and times' short stories , which she was reading, was concealed away inside a textbook in case someone came along.<br/><br/>The first chapter she had read the previous night under the bedcovers. Some parts she uncannily found similar to her erotic encounter with the unkempt man in her earlier wet dream. Like then she ended up climaxing in an intense orgasm. Adult section it indeed belong to. Not daring to leave her book at home in case her mother came across it, Melanie had no choice but to take it to school with the rest of her studies. She was just starting the second short story beneath a couple of trees with her hand already wandering under her pleated skirt which was gradually rising further and further up her thighs exposing her white boy-style brief panties.