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.
