No practice lunges now - the first stroke bit right in and the boy screamed.I knew it was not use to scream and beg for mercy. Miss Priscilla thrived ...n the pain of boys. So he might as well scream his head off. And he did. Cut after cut followed, each delivered with precision. The boys buttocks were soon a mass of livid stripes.And then it happened - a particularly vicious stroke landed square across his balls. He squealed like a pig, and Miss Priscilla gave a little grin. "I'm sorry" she. It was where he kept his CDs and videos and all the other functionally untidy things. On its floor were stacked the dailies and weeklies that formed stalagmites in my own living room. I never saw him read them.I shouldn't poke about, I knew. It was more than bad manners. The urge, though, was too strong. I might discover, folded up and sealed with a handful of mothballs and left on an upper shelf, the real him. I'd just take a moment, I told myself, just a glance.The second to top shelf was. More

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