Chapter 14
"Ahhh!" I open my eyes. Madre de dios! I must have passed out that time. Diana is bending over me as before, waiting for me to regain my wits.
"What's the matter?" she asks. "That was just a little kick... Was it as bad as being stabbed in the guts by Geraldo? No of course not! Here you are again with your Kikka. Still alive and ready to continue your punishment!"
"As I was saying, before you interrupted me with all that sobbing and pleading: Killing you is best for me, because after he's disembowelled you, I'll tell Geraldo that I know exactly what he did... how he used his stiletto on you, just as he taught me to use mine, should I ever need to defend myself."
She's bending over me and in her hand is a long thin sharp knife, a stiletto. Its tip is pressing into my abdomen, demonstrating where Geraldo's knife will enter. I don't dare move. The slightest movement might complete the demonstration.
"A firm upward thrust through your diaphragm, into your heart. Then a quick slice down to your cock so the guts fall out." I can feel the point drawing a line downwards to my member. She gives it a little whack with the blade.
Her voice is echoing with mounting excitement as she again draws the sharp point down my stomach and imagines my brutal death and its consequences: "That way I will have him under my thumb, with the card from that stolen camera, that you so kindly and unexpectedly provided, proving that he set you up and then murdered you."
She suddenly changes her voice and sounds regretful, a child who has had to leave a fluffy kitten in a pet shop: "Oh! But that would be a terrible waste. To sacrifice such a good, appetising hunk like you," emphasising the 'hunk'.
She's walking around me admiring me like a specimen, throwing the knife from hand to hand, pushing me flat onto my back again; straightening me out on the, now slimy, wooden floor.
With the top of her foot, she nudges my aching genitales. It's as if she's tyre kicking and I'm a car she's thinking of buying.
"It's a pity this isn't a bit bigger. You're a classic male. I've always thought that about classic males, like Michelangelo's David. Piccolo. Maybe classical artists didn't want to make their creations too competitive in that respect? Was it to flatter their patrons; to avoid unfavourable comparisons by their women; or was it an ego thing?"
She's demeaning my manhood again but I have to humour her. I have no answer. She looks like she might use the knife to hurt me. Cut me; punish me for my size. I can't help what I was born with. I begin to cry but it's not in pain. I'm terrified. She reminds me of the beautiful but evil queen in Snow White, before the potion that transforms her, as she stands over me, legs apart, black gown flowing open, displaying her evil beauty and smiling down at me.
Her voice is excited, husky again: "You are a real hunk you know, a beautiful body, with such potential!"
Suddenly her arm extends over her shoulder and falls. Her knife has flashed towards my genitales. I'm so numb I'm not sure what happened. I raise my head in horror to see her stiletto, still vibrating, sticking into the floor a centimetre from my testicles. Knife throwing must be another of her skills.
"If I do decide to save you from Geraldo's sharp knife, they're going to love you in prison! Size won't matter there. The tighter you are the better. Now be quiet and lie still. No one likes to see a man crying."
Then I realise, she must already have those cameras recording all this!
In confirmation, she's posing for the bronze dancer. Her gown is twirled like a rope, caught around behind her back. Could this be a kind of signature, concluding the performance? If so, who's this 'artistic' performance for? An on-line audience?
This footage, collected from every angle, would be a fetishists delight!