Adventures in squirt-land - part 1.

Miss Teacher made it sound simple when she said there'd be no punishment for late homework. Now she watches me like she’s forgotten that promise. The look in her eyes makes my stomach flip. I’ll do anything to stay in her good books today. Geography class is next, and she tells me we’re studying Squirtland. The name means nothing to me, yet her tone already makes it sound like a place she knows intimately. She leans against the desk, legs crossed, watching every move I make. Her blouse pulls tight across her chest with each slow breath, and the tiny skirt rides higher as she taps the pointer against her palm. She motions for me to kneel and starts explaining how geography works in this country I’ve never visited. The pointer slides between my fingers, guiding them lower, teaching me the terrain by touch. Every new detail pulls a sharp gasp from me, and each sound earns a pleased nod from her. She guides my hand to match her pace, showing me the exact rhythm the land responds to, until the lesson shifts from textbook to real, wet discovery.