A Cruel Passing of Innocence by J.D. Jensen Page A

he bent right forward so that his back was arched and his face almost touching the stone slabs, his arms spread out in front of him and his rump thrust out behind. ‘Abbaijsh!’
    Gradually the slaves understood the refinement of the required perversity of posture, and quickly copied him. Moving their knees outward they leaned forward, prostrating themselves as low as they could, straining forward. Chains rattled until the slaves were finally still again, stretched out, submissive, waiting, not daring to move a muscle, trembling with the unfamiliar tension, fearful of what might come.
    But Belithza, still shackled to Nassara, had not spread herself to the satisfaction of one of the whip-boys, who stood over her angrily. ‘Abbaijsh!’ he shouted down at her, then when she scarcely moved he bent and roughly pushed her nose down against the ground, grabbing one of her thighs and pulling it further out. Then upright again, and looking down contemptuously, he lashed her raised buttocks.
    â€˜Ooooh…!’ she yelped, biting her lip, struggling to retain the new uncomfortable posture.
    Nassara scarcely dared glance at Belithza’s agonised features as she involuntarily lowered her torso still further, her spine dipped, her buttocks raised, her nipples brushing the stone floor.
    There was silence again, apart from the gentle sound of running water in the lily pools. At last the lead whip-boy seemed satisfied and nodded approvingly, scanning the prostrated slaves, searching for any sign that might indicate a lapse in their display of servility. He went back to the large man, who still stood as motionless as any statue, surveying the scene with disdainful amusement. The whip-boy gave a little bow and the large man nodded, clapping his hands again.
    Several liveried guards, who had earlier opened the outer doors, came back into the courtyard, hurrying to the chained lines of grovelling slaves. With iron unlocking tools they busied themselves, bending to remove the studded leather collars, pulling roughly at craned necks and grunting with effort until the shackles dropped, jangling to the ground.
    Nassara was glad to feel the cumbersome collar fall away, careful not to move from her submissive posture, keeping her forehead pressed to the flagstones. It seemed to her that this humbling posture was to be the deferential mark of their humility and obedience to their new masters. From henceforth she knew that no sooner had the command abbaijsh passed from the lips of the whip-boys, or their masters, than slaves must instantly fall and prostrate themselves, remaining motionless, cast down like paralysed statues until the masters’ gracious release.
    The courtyard grew steadily hotter. She did not know how long they stayed in that position, listening to the quietly padding feet of the vigilant boys and the trickling of water.
    After a while she became stiff, aching in the unnatural posture. Once one of the whip-boys knelt behind her, and she sensed his scowling face close to her buttocks. He nudged the dip of her back with the tip of his whip, indicating that she should dip still further and spread her knees still wider.
    The strain became acute, but just as she thought she could bear it no longer the head whip-boy shouted another command. ‘Arribaja!’ He gestured with his whip in upward movements, indicating that the slaves were to rise. Nassara got quickly to her feet, grateful for the respite from the straining posture of debasement.
    But there were further lessons of servility. It seemed that in standing a slave must display sufficient poise of humility and respect. Heads held too high and eyes not cast down were acts of disrespect, and any slave showing disrespect was roughly seized by the hair until he or she did.
    Glancing from beneath her eyelashes Nassara saw the large man surveying his assembled slaves. Warily he watched the young men, who now released from their shackles could perhaps pose a