SHEA DID: he scrabbled on his hands and knees across the floor of Telor's tent. There was Telor, hands on his hips, smiling, beautiful, vast. His enhanced size only attracted Shea more, the youth was surprised to consider—there was a side of him that would not mind crawling around Telor at that size, always, despite the fear that Telor's enormity instilled in the miniature human.

As Shea drew closer, he noticed how Telor's foot indicated something: the elf stood with one leg forward, foot arced downward, toe pointed—Telor's graceful signal asked for Shea to pay attention to the shoe that was before the elf. It was a sandal, simple but elegant, and its length was impressive to Shea's tiny frame of reference. He could make a generous bed of that shoe.

Shea continued to crawl; he could no longer pull his head back to take in the expanse of his Master's body as he did so, for Telor was too tall. Soon, all Shea could see was Telor's looming legs and towering foot, and his waiting sandal—those toes tapped at the shoe-bed ever-so-slightly.

"On your back, slave. Right here."

Shea's mouth dried out; he could not swallow as he stared at the shoe.

Telor's sandal was longer than Shea was tall. Pressed to its surface was the darkened imprint of Telor's sole, where weight, sweat, and friction had permanently stained the material. Shea thought of how Telor's foot had trapped him against the tent pole, and his own desire to be branded by that shape, much in the way that Telor's sandals were.

That Mia was.

The order hanged in the air: Shea was to lie flat on the sandal.

And then what?

You know what, an angry, bitter little voice whispered.

Just like Mia.

In one moment, Shea could not move. Every breath was endless, yet his lungs did not fill. Every second that passed, it seemed to Shea, laid bare his hesitation to the elf. No doubt, Shea feared, he would be punished at any second. The foot-tall youth was incapable of hiding the fear that seized his features. Only with great effort could he force his lips into something like a gruesome smile. Tears dripped from his cheeks.

Shea knelt beside the sandal's stage, and shivered.

"Here, boy." Telor's toe tapped and commanded. "Right here."

He could not run.

Nor wake up.

Above him, Telor smiled warmly, and stared without blinking.

Oh, it was awful; it was wonderful.

Shea lowered himself to just above the musty floor of the tent. He crawled forward, slowly. The weight of the giant's gaze pushed down on his back—a palpable force. It was ice cold in Telor's shadow. As he wriggled onto the platform of the elf's shoe, the tent's must subsided as a familiar, sour brine called at his nostrils, sweet and tangy with every pull.

Shea resumed his kneeling position once atop the sandal. He gazed along the length of its surface. There were five well-worn grooves just before him, darkened with grime that Telor's foot had pressed into the shoe over what must have surely been years. A smooth plane that had molded to the shape of Telor's foot—yielded to it.

Just like Mia had, Shea ruminated once more. His mind was broken, a record that skipped; the thought made him bodily flinch, as if he was struck.

"Slave," Telor's voice droned, at once flat and bored; a statement and a question.

The little human's head shook; his features twitched. On his knees, he appeared far smaller than his foot in height. Waifish and thin, Shea's naked body shivered in spite of the fire.

Telor's large feet were on either side of him—dark gold as lit by the flame—and the shadowed outline of his leanly muscular legs, visible through those thin, loose pants, soared like the trees outside that tent.

So high above that Shea had to bend his neck back as far as it would go were the shimmering orbs of Telor's eyes; they twinkled darkly.

"Slave," the elf said, louder now.

Shea eased himself forward. He rested his palms flat against the platform of Telor's large shoe. But he could move no further.

"Master," Shea whispered.

The human's head hung; his eyes roamed over the expansive imprint, desperately searched all of the way to the crater worn into the insole by Telor's round, hard heel. Shea imagined that heel lowering onto him.

That familiar lined texture of the giant's flesh had grooved the leather; Mia's flesh was decorated by that same pattern.

Would Shea's flesh be lined?

The boy licked his lips.

"We're"—and licked his lips again and, with effort, swallowed—"We're going to go there together, right? You'll take me back with you, to your city? I'll live with you there, and serve you, and we'll be—"

Telor roared, his voice filled the room like thunder: "SLAVE!"

Shea shook all over, like a hound left out in the rain. Tears dripped from his chin and cheeks and from off the tip of his nose. Pained whines escaped his lips. His mind swirled chaotically as he grasped for some kind of guarantee, or a way out.

He was trapped, even though Telor's foot was not yet on top of him.

It was a death sentence, to lie down on that sandal. Shea knew it, but still he fought the quiet voice that whispered to him.

"You're coming with me," Telor unexpectedly drawled.

The little human leaned back and gazed skyward.

Shea no longer trembled, save for a few final spasms. At Telor's words, it was as if the maelstrom that seized the youth's mind cleared. Shea's wet eyes studied his Master, his jaw slack.

High above were Telor's eyes, and the elf leaned forward so that Shea might see more of him: his upturned nose and wide, thin-lipped mouth; his curved ears that tapered up into fine and delicate points—all the many angles of his beautiful face.

Telor arched one long, thin eyebrow, and grinned. "Don't you trust me, slave?"

It was with wooden movements, in a daze, that Shea finally splayed himself across the length of Telor's sandal. He breathed slow and steady; he focused on fantasies of himself in the glorious city of the elves, accompanying Telor as his slave. The imagery filled him with peace.

A trace of warmth greeted his back—a warmth fused with the supple hide stretched over the shoe's insole, as if some spectral presence of Telor's sole remained there always.

"Good," Telor cooed; he stretched the word.

There was that singular perspective: Telor, from below. As though seen with the eyes of an insect. As Mia must have gazed upon her killer, in her last moments. Telor was colossal.

It overwhelmed Shea to be the focus of this giant's attention. Shea quivered anew atop the elf's sandal. He laid his head down into the depression caused by Telor's heel, and waited.

Telor chuckled.

The giant's body shifted.

His hands went to his hips, as they often did before he lifted his leg—and Telor's leg did lift. He positioned his long, smooth, rose-kissed sole in the air above Shea. Desire flooded the diminutive pet at the sight of his Master's foot—at its gorgeous bottom. 

"You'll be with me every step of the way."

Telor's foot lowered, and Shea flinched. His mind was split in two, as it often was by Telor: Shea wanted to continue to lie there on the sandal; he wanted to get up and flee.

That heavenly sole filled Shea's vision—its labyrinthine wrinkles and whorls filled in; those tiniest of details—and its heat and scent invaded his atmosphere.

Shea experienced a surge of acute panic at the last second. It was just too much, and he tried to squirm from beneath Telor's flesh.

Telor's foot was firm in how it pressed Shea flat against the sandal's surface.

Shea gasped.

His open lips strained to hold their shape, for a smile tugged at them, even as he was rocked by his flight response.

To be under Telor's foot; smothered by it, submerged in the sensation of the giant's sole—it was a blissful moment. Shea's worries would not leave him, but they were pushed to the back of his mind: to experience Telor's foot on this smaller scale continued to be a rapturous experience. Almost impossibly, Shea could forget that he was pinned against the man's sandal by a potentially deadly force.

A bug on Telor's shoe.

Shea groaned as Telor's flesh slid over him. The soft slab pushed downward atop his nudity and stoked Shea's uncontrollable arousal. Telor's looming body—and his distant handsome face—were briefly visible from between his toes as the giant played with the tiny human's head.

Telor laughed spritely, and his foot quickly moved up and over the length of Shea once more; the youth's cock was teased further with the motion, and hardened underneath its Master's soft skin.

Shea moaned; Telor's sole undulated as the giant's foot found its place atop the sandal, toes wiggling into position. Telor's toes covered Shea's feet; Shea's head was on its side beneath the elf's heel.

And then there was weight. Horrible compression. Very nearly crushing weight—all at once, all over Shea's body.

Telor's soft sole grew more firm with each moment that passed, and Shea's struggles were curtly squashed by the force of Telor's mass. Shea could not even open his mouth to protest for how the giant's sole molded around his whole form—Telor's heel mashed the features of Shea's face, and forced them to be as still as a mask, frozen in a rictus.

As quickly as it happened, the weight spared Shea: Telor's foot rose, though only by inches.

The overhanging peachy ceiling eclipsed Shea's vision still. Its scent filled his nostrils, its heat radiated all over his body with tangible, wave-like energy. Shea's skin was damp; damp from his own stressed sweat, and from even a short moment underneath his Master's foot.

Telor's sole hovered so close that Shea's cock continued to bob against it as Shea's organ bucked from how blood tentatively filled it.

The youth gasped for air like a drowned man who had just erupted from the ocean's surface, after a time trapped by its depths.

He shook mightily with fear—Telor's weight could be so frightfully immense.

Whimpered begging words spilled out of Shea as he gawked at Telor's sole overhead. Shea glanced to either side of the flesh: open air—freedom! So very close. If he quickly rolled, perhaps—and only perhaps—he could be out from under Telor's foot before the giant could react.

As if Telor could read his little pet's mind, the colossus's foot moved.

The flesh-ceiling lowered.

With a wild scream, Shea flung himself to the side toward his only possible escape.

High above, Telor laughed.

Shea was smashed down onto his flank, hard, his shoulders painfully crushed inward toward one another.

The trapped human panicked anew; the fast-growing pain kept him acutely aware of how awful and precarious his new position was. And he could not adjust himself into a comfortable configuration as Telor steadily added weight on top of him.

Shea pushed and strained, and fought and wiggled, but all of his efforts were fruitless.

He was just too weak.

He was totally powerless.

Telor's sole pressed down onto him with purpose, and elicited a single, loud, telltale snap.

Shea's eyelids and jaw shot open, and though he desperately wanted to, he could not scream, for the spike of pain was too much.

Something at the back of one shoulder was broken: a fissure inside of him along the plate of his shoulder blade. Hurt like he had never experienced before shocked him into a near catatonic-state: the muscles at the top of his throat ground against one another, flesh dry and raw, like stone. All over, his body tensed, but he could not move: he was buried beneath Telor's sole, as surely as he would have been in his grave.

Master had lied.

Telor lied!

The great weight on top of Shea shifted. The roof of Telor's sole rose, and finally Shea did scream. It was a hoarse, strained sound, and it mixed in and was lost inside of Telor's triumphant cackle.

In the absence of Telor's foot, air cooler than the elf's stifling flesh billowed over Shea's naked body. He was rocked with sudden shivers.

The pain only grew worse: able to writhe, Shea discovered that his movement irritated his wound more than the firm compress of being underfoot. With mobility, too, came the terrible knowledge of how Telor had broken him. His right arm was draped, inert, across his body, and barely responded to his brain's commands.

Terror lit a spark in Shea's mind, and erupted into flame: his arm was ruined. Smashed. He was broken. Forever. In a way that could not be repaired. His threshold had been crossed. He had been violated.

Escape, Shea pleaded with himself. Escape, now! But, in the throes of his pain, he could only wriggle and squirm.

A mewling whine left Shea. He wanted words. Words to beg Telor with. To ask him why. To tell him, please stop; he would do anything. Truly—absolutely—anything.

The quivering little human was balanced perfectly on a precipice between hatred and love for his fiendish Master.

His soul was shattered. He was desperate for Telor to piece it back together.

In the briefest moment, Shea managed to regain control of his spasmodic throat, and uttered five of the quietest words he had ever spoken: "Master, please don't kill me."

High above, behind the canopy of his sole and out of sight, Telor's contented sigh was like a rushing breeze. Though Shea could not see Telor's face with his eyes, his Master's happy visage materialized clearly in his mind.

The mass of Telor's foot—lengthier than Shea's height, and wider, fuller—moved in the space above the boy.

Telor's foot came down.

That sole was like an avalanche that slid down a slope. A force. One which Shea was in the way of. And could not escape.

Telor's toes settled into their familiar grooves at the the front end of the sandal. The elf's toes wiggled on top of Shea's feet—they felt for the strap at the front of the shoe, sought Shea's tiny, delicate appendages.

The tower of a man's voice dripped, thick and hot. Spoken deeply, from depths, even from so high: "Oh. Toy."

An abrupt thrust from Telor's toes completely flattened both of Shea's feet.

Shea now began at the ankles. Unlike his crippled arm, his feet were gone, smashed into oblivion.

Shea howled and flailed like a moth that had flown into a lantern.

He punched at Telor's arched sole with his one good arm, awkwardly, pinned as he was by his feet.

Shea squirmed with all of the grace of a fish that flopped on the shore, helpless as his legs stubbornly clung—with ligaments and tendons—to the smashed vestiges of his extremities. 

Telor's sole fell, a wave of flesh.

More and more of Telor's mammoth foot rolled over Shea's legs. The bones at the beginnings of Telor's toes were like giant hammers as they shifted that caved in the youth's shins with a sickening pair of snaps.

Shea thrashed mindlessly; he wailed wordlessly.

His knees popped beneath the ball of the elf's soft, deadly, unstoppable foot, which bulldozed into Shea's thighs.

Even though Telor's arch was so supple and plush on top of Shea, its firm musculature destroyed the boy beneath without resistance, all the way up to his waist.

In a primal response, Shea propped himself up on his last limb, in that dwindling space, so he could stretch himself and scream one long, lilting note—an injured wolf that howled its last.

The foot paused.

The flesh twisted in the air above Shea; it further pulverized the parts of Shea that were caught and crushed as it did.

Like the sun as it crested the horizon, Telor's lovely face bloomed beyond the wrinkled wall of his sole, and his pale sea-green eyes observed the tinier being.

Shea gazed straight into his Master's eyes—brilliant gold flecks glittered there—and Telor stared back. The elf's pupils flitted about as if he studied Shea's face with great interest.

The youth's once beautiful visage was now a portrait of overwhelming pain. His flesh was red with strain, wet with tears, bruised from how Telor had wrecked him. Shea blubbered and screamed up at the giant. Unable to speak. Unable to do anything other than wriggle and writhe, like a worm mostly trodden upon.

Though shock drowned the young human's ears with an intense white noise, for a moment, he could hear through it. A wet storm raged once again outside the tent, and beat at its soft walls.

A heavy rain. Wind that whipped.

The collective sigh of all those broad, flat leaves high, high above.

Fat drops fell in through the chimney hole at the apex of the tapered roof.

Whiffs of the storm's fresh scent teased Shea's nostrils with the world he was to leave; that intimate home, soon to be lost.

Telor's grin disappeared as his sole reassumed its altitude.

The peach sky lowered, and the rain sound vanished—too far now from Shea's ever-shrinking foothold on existence—and Telor's honeyed aroma overpowered any scent from Shea's home.

Once more the flesh-wave crashed down.

Shea's hips crackled and flattened completely as the firm plantar expanse broke upon the sandal without any regard for his diminutive frame.

As the elf's flesh clamped down onto his stomach, the boy was refused even his squirming. Shea shook his head violently instead, as if possessed. His body just needed to move. To get the pain out. But nothing helped. It was a useless and sad response, and entirely involuntary.

Shea's guts swam inside of him with disturbing clarity as the pressure mounted.

His ribs crackled like the crust of an old bread loaf—the lengths of bone snapped and broke off of his skeleton and scythed through his insides.

The little human's belly unzipped at his sides as if knives gutted him, and his entrails seeped through the gaping tears in a deluge of blood and plasma.

Shea's banshee wail deflated, and went silent; his brown eyes rolled upward as he gyrated randomly atop the sandle.

Yet his body continued to produce sound, noisy in his demise: bones crunched and snapped, his fleshy substructure squelched.

His one good arm beat futilely against Telor's descending sole with an erratic, lethargic rhythm, before it was caught and was crushed, too.

Shea's shaking head slowed—like a machine that unexpectedly lost its power, and wound down toward stillness.

The youth's walnut-sized skull was cast into gloom by Telor's heel, which paused just above Shea's face. Shea's vision was clouded, as if it had frosted over. All he could see besides was flesh.

Rosy, tender, lined skin.

Telor's flawless flesh.

His end.

Shea's mind seized, and failed, but his raw senses were aware of the incalculable weight of Telor's heel on his features as it pressed on his face. His face was squashed tortuously flat.

His brain registered the drastic increase in pressure that acted on his skull, and a moment later recorded the first cracks that crept across its cranial housing, just before Shea's head totally collapsed.

Pain! From innumerable points, that pain overwhelmed Shea's consciousness as splinters of his skull shredded his matter, and