“Lesha,” snapped the second officer to the blond girl.
She spun from facing him, and lifted her chin, turning her head to the left, placing her wrists behind her, as though for snapping them into slave bracelets.
“Nadu!” he snapped.
She swiftly turned, facing him, and dropped to her knees. She knelt back on her heels, her back straight, her hands on her thighs, her head up, her knees wide.
It was the position of the pleasure slave.
“Sula, Kajira!” said the man.
She slid her legs from under her and lay on her back, her hands at her sides, palms up. her legs open.
“Bara, Kajira!” he said.
She rolled quickly to her stomach, placing her wrists behind her, crossed, and crossing her ankles, ready to be bound.
“She is a pretty thing,” said Ulafi, and turned away.
“Yes,” I said.
“Sula!” said the man. “Bara! Nadu! Lesha! Nadu! Bara! Sula! Nadu!”
The girl was gasping. There were tears in her eyes, as she knelt on the deck. Once she had been struck when her transition between two of the movements had been insufficiently beautiful. Another time she had been struck when her response had been insufficiently prompt.

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