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From: The Bawdy Bloke <john@bawdybloke.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Getting Ahead (FDom, short, BDSM)
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Date: Sat, 07 Jun 2014 06:11:32 -0400
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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.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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