Pretty maids all in a row

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Ponce de Leon found the body. It happened this way: he had excused himself, politely, from Miss Smith’s Eng Lit class to go to the lavatory and masturbate. Or, more precisely, find a suitable and relatively private receptacle for the torrent of stuff that screamed to leap out of him. For Miss Smith drove him wild. With those gorgeous, soft curves under those gorgeous outfits she wore—the sweaters!—and that gorgeous smell, that fragrance of hers, which you could always tell a few corridors off and could only be her, Ponce just about went off his rock. He sat as long as he could in her class. Then, panting practically, he just had to excuse himself from the class, almost always, and no fighting it. He was in love with Miss Smith—often referred to by the kooky elements in the school as Miss Snowy-Paws and by certain other plain crude elements as, and Ponce hated the thought, Miss Purry-Twat. These latter elements were an extremely tiny minority, needless to say. But they bothered Ponce, nevertheless. For he never, never could have that kind of thought. He was in love with her, and had always been, since the day he had first set eyes on her. She filled his dreams. He was her Lancelot. That gorgeous hair! His heart thumped, he flushed, he blushed, he was extremely warm and bothered whenever he saw her. And when she talked to him! He lost all contact. He was in space, far, far out, orbiting Venus. He was mad about her. He had just entered the lavatory. He was just about to plunge into a cubicle, with his heart throb, unzip himself, and haul out the redhot, when he spied the body. Not that at that precise moment he realized it was a body. He stopped in his tracks, puzzled, then, astounded. And he had a conflict. For the matter was hot, and urgent. There was the cubicle.

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