Getting Ahead

The pictures had come out well. Sparkling clear images with delightful crisp edges and smooth contours. The videos were even better.

My expert and I were a little concerned by the lighting in the dungeon, but the modern optics in the micro-cameras have improved considerably over the years and I had benefited.

The whole nation would benefit too.

I smiled as I zoomed on the pained expression of the man, kneeling on the cold, hard stone floor as Miss Katrina brought her savage whip against his prostrate body. His face a cocktail of agony; the silent yells of the still and pain-filled eyes told a story.

The story of a politician, hell-bent on climbing the greasy pole of politics, but just as eager in private to have the greasy pole of a dominatrix's strap-on rammed forcefully up his behind. The tale of a moral campaigner, eager to publicly denounce and eschew the sinful decadence of the modern age, but paying huge sums of misappropriated cash each week to be savagely beaten. A tangled web of deceit.

Yes, those pictures told a story, that an exposé by this top tabloid journalist would tell.

Miss Katrina helped; the high-cost dominatrix was keen to return home to Moscow, and an extra five-figure sum in her bank account was gratefully received; costs for her assistance, a pay-off for availing herself to my requirements.

She gave me many good shows for the camera. The lying politician smothered by his own lust as she ridiculed the size of his manhood, laughed at his naked frame and beat him within an inch of his life. The firm strokes of her gloved hand using an array of paddles, whips and crops turning his arse flame red.

She used her strap-on like she promised and it made for some great pictures; the part of his beaten buttocks sucking the big, black veiny cock of the petite Russian. It had to be a black cock, a realistic black cock: the contrast of his milky-white skin and the darkness of the dildo was pure circulation pornography.

But the Pièce de résistance was the blubbering at the end of the session; the pitiful squeals of mercy as she flogged him with her bullwhip, reducing the homophobic, racist, intolerant religious zealot to a smouldering mass of tears. The tearing through the air of the weapon as it landed on his pained skin with a ferocious crack.

He cried, begging for mercy. But she gave him none, torturing his backside with ever increasing pelts of savagery, slashing his skin with red stripes of agony. He cried, staring at my camera with pitiful sobs.

He had no power, no control, nothing: the beast of the Commons reduced to a snivelling, pathetic nobody enslaved by an immigrant he spent so much time rallying against.

The story would destroy his career; I would see to that.

But it was not my favourite front-page spread from Miss Katrina: she gave me a whole weeks worth of stories before leaving for Russia, and the Welsh football captain's visits gave me exceptional footage.

The married man, father to three kids and a legend to his legion of fans at his Sussex club, was kinky. He was seriously kinky, and the macho image of supreme midfield mastery was always a marketing ploy, the video of the spanking he received while dressed as a naughty school girl certainly wasn't!

He looked cute in a warped way: pigtails, plaid dress, stockings, and frilly knickers. All exposed as Miss Katrina pulled him across her knee and wrapped her hand over the transvestite.

He loved every minute of his torture: the slap of the hand on his silky underwear, the firm grip that the diminutive dominatrix had over his athletic body and the removal of his clothes to receive his torment while his little cock was locked away in chastity.

He was pathetic.

They'd all blame me for their demise: the television presenter who would be sacked from childrens television, the city CEO who would be submitting a midnight resignation, the film star who would find offers for work harder to come by, the union baron who'd stand down for "personal reasons" before his members could deliver their own spanking as well as my football captain and hypocritical politician.

But I am just a journalist: I have to expose their debauchery and their sin. I have to show the world what degrading treatments they enjoy, and I have to highlight their hypocrisy. It's my job to tell the truth.

And it is rampant debauchery of the worst kind. Middle England will be appalled that their sexual perversion is so prevalent.

I smiled as I closed the laptop lid: those stories would cause the sales of our newspaper to surge in the coming days as we made headlines around the world; I was in line for a five-figure bonus myself.

Enough to fund my visits to Miss Svetlana; she's a friend of Miss Katrina's and excellent with her evil sadistic ways. My arse still glowing red-raw from the lunchtime beating it had received, nestling against the soft, smooth fabric of my pink lacy briefs. It was exciting: the thrill of no-one knowing about my secret desires was intoxicating, and the underwear felt good, very good!

As did my confidence: I had exposed the private life of six kinky people. Who said there's no honour in tabloid journalism? And don't judge us, we just hold a mirror to society. We only write but you want to read.