TELOR LIFTED MIA'S BODY by her garment as if Mia weighed nothing.

With one powerful shake the woman's soaked clothes tore away, and her nude form dropped as if from a sack, and flopped against the floor. Mia went totally limp where she landed.

Shea was instantly embarrassed to see his mother naked in this fashion. They had lived together in a small cabin, and he had beheld all of her flesh before—and even admired her from time to time as something like an alluring beauty, for Shea seldom interacted with anyone else—but this was different. Telor was Shea's amorous focus, and Mia's undressed body was an unwanted befuddlement.

With only her head under her command, Mia glanced between Shea and Telor, for help, for mercy. The elf just laughed and walked his spritely path around her; Shea sucked noisily on the rabbit's briny bones as tears streaked around his mad smile.

Mia's limbs were scattered all about her after her haphazard fall. Telor, hands ever at his hips, jaunty in grin and gait, carelessly trod upon one of the woman's thin, pale forearms. The appendage crunched like dry leaves underfoot. Mia's voice was strained and deflated, yet she produced a shocked, tortured shriek even still.

Mother and son alike observed her injury with horror, and how part of her arm was smashed completely flat—as if a cart wheel had rolled over Mia's forearm, but instead of the wheel's blunt edge, her flesh was textured by Telor's tread, glistened with the elf's sweat, begrimed with grit from his sole.

The air was still before Shea's open lips. Gears turned in his head.

His eyes drank in every little detail they could.

The more the youth stared between his mother's crushed arm, and gazed upon the tall elf's beauty—which was only magnified by the sudden and violent acts that provided Telor with such delight—the more Shea craved the kind of awful, terrible sight of Mia's wound, and the thrill it inspired.

He wanted to see Mia completely smashed, a pancake of gore.

To see her so utterly destroyed by Telor's wondrous feet.

She was no longer his mother, not right then: she was the beast that Telor claimed her to be, which dearly needed his instruction; and Shea knew, deep down, that he was the same.

No: Mia would not listen. She did not want to learn. Shea would; Shea did.

The spit, which held a picked-clean skeleton, slowly lowered along with Shea's hands, and the young human began to breathe again—long, slow, steady breaths, as Shea imbibed on the sight of how Telor trod all over the worthless varmint beneath his godly feet.

Telor started to really stomp around. The soles of his large feet thudded onto the semi-firm canvas-on-dirt floor of his spacious tent, and onto Mia's arms and legs. The gorgeous elf smiled gaily and laughed, which only half-drowned the sounds of Mia's crackling bones every few footfalls.

His strikes appeared careless, and yet they had brutal precision: Telor stamped down somewhere new along Mia's limbs with each step and did as much damage as he could. In the short span of time that it took the sublime being to complete a series of orbits around Mia's supine body, Telor left her legs and arms horribly trashed in his wake.

Rather than be repulsed by the sight of his mother plastered to the floor by her squished appendages, Shea studied her destruction as carefully as he had the whorls and lines of Telor's soft, deadly soles—for Telor's soles were the cause, and this effect was their art.

Mia's limbs were crinkled like folding fans; their bones were snapped and zig-zagged. Her trampled flesh sagged flatly, sullied and shredded, and had the appearance of emptied-out bags tossed to the ground. Exposed muscle glistened in the openings of her wounds. Her blood was everywhere, in streaks, and slashes, and pools that spread from the torn stumps that remained. Pieces of her were everywhere: bone fragments, meaty bits, skin scraps.

Telor left crimson footprints in a circle around her.

His soles shone red.

Mia's head twisted back and forth as she begged, or she screamed when the pain was too great. Her eyelids were squeezed shut; no longer did she beseech her tormentor, or her son.

What was left of the woman's fractured bones crackled horribly—wonderfully!—with each step that Telor took. The elf smashed her already ruined extremities beneath him with relish, pressed them ever more flat, slowly, bit by bit. His handsome visage flittered between lust and delight.

All the while Mia fought against her sedation. She strained her head and neck against the stupor which had seized the rest of her form, as if her head might be of some use. And for what, Shea wondered, after so horrible a mutilation? What inspired her to fight on? When she did weakly peel her eyelids, she glared between the two men. Her look cycled from fury, to fright, to pain, and back around again and again in loops.

Shea returned the glare of his mother-turned-beast. His dark hazel eyes glittered in the firelight. The boy licked his lips in a wide circle and he tasted the last of the roasted rabbit, Telor's faint tang. Predatory delight tugged at the youth as surely as if he dangled from these sensations by yoking strings tied to Telor's fingertips.

Mia was just a torso—topped by breasts that sagged almost humorously, with the blossom of folds of her sex at her bottom—and a head, totally helpless. Her nudity was not erotic or of interest to Shea; it was offensive and inspired disgust.

His mother should have died from how profusely she bled from the stumps at her shoulders and hips, or at least been robbed of consciousness, yet she was aware and forced to live through the violence. Instead of confounding Shea, this detail only pleased him. It was no doubt some effect enabled by Telor's magic dust.

Finally, Telor's morbid orbit halted. He wiped his bloody soles clean on an unspoiled patch of the tent's supple flooring.

Then he strode back over to Mia, but grinned at Shea as he did. The eager minion's heart soared at Telor's fleeting attention, and he held onto that moment of time after the elf's hot gaze left him.

With excitement, Shea watched Telor place his shapely foot atop Mia's bare chest, her breasts askew from how she had thrashed and the ragged way that she breathed. The elf mmm'd and rubbed a sole that Shea knew was so beguiling soft against his fallen mother's breast, before he repositioned his foot onto her shoulder.

How Shea wished he could see through Mia's eyes at that moment: to see Telor from below, and to behold how he loomed, like a giant. Shea was mesmerized by the way Telor stared unblinkingly at Mia—how horrific it was for her, and would be for Shea, and yet how endlessly it roused him to consider himself under that merciless gaze!

Telor lowered his foot into the roundness of Mia's shoulder. The slow movement appeared completely effortless and relaxed, and yet Mia screamed as if he had stomped on her instead. There came an awful creaking racket. Shea watched with mortified wonder as Telor pressed his foot all the way to the floor with ease; he had totally smashed Mia's shoulder beneath his sole.

A deeply discolored and misshapen mass of meat was all that was left behind as the elf's foot raised. Curves of skeleton, its natural order destroyed, bulged beneath Mia's tissue at all the wrong angles, and poked through where her shoulder had teared or pulped—sharp white splinters, and snapped bone that showed its marrow.

Telor laughed like it was all just in good fun. His glinting eyes roamed across the length of Mia's torso; they performed dark calculations.

He planted a foot in the middle of her exposed tummy next—even just the fierce shaking of Mia's head was enough that the rest of her quivered—and then the soft surface of her stomach ballooned dangerously around the outline of Telor's sole.

The elf pumped his foot a few times, pleased with how Mia's innards visibly swam. When it was clear that he only throttled her to hear more of her whimpered pleas, Mia broke and sobbed uncontrollably.

Telor drove his foot into her, added more weight onto her tummy. Her guts protruded under the skin, and squirmed around as they all tried to fit inside a shrinking space under constantly increased pressure.

Then Telor flexed his long toes into Mia's swollen tummy. A tear opened up just beyond their tips: Mia's side split open above her hip, and blood and viscera gushed out and slopped onto the tent floor. Another gurgled squelch: Mia's other flank unzipped as Telor rocked his weight toward his heel, and her body ejected its contents in either direction.

Telor roared with laughter as if Mia had just taken a pie to the face. With his foot, he continued to squeeze her insides out of her.

The wicked being forced his foot all the way down; a section of Mia's spine was caught beneath, and snapped and popped beneath Telor's arch.

The elf did not lift his leg this time to survey the damage he had done, as he had with Mia's shoulder—no, he raised his other foot, and his sole hovered above Mia so that she might better survey his deadly instrument. With his one foot planted squarely in the center of her flattened, wrecked tummy, Telor brought its twin down, and his sole stopped as it rested along the curve of Mia's lowermost ribs.

Shea focused his vision on the length, and shape, and features of Telor's flawless foot, too excited to blink in anticipation of its inevitable show of violent power. Telor did not leave his captivated acolyte to wait for long.

Shea sat straight up, and was stone-still, and observed Telor's every movement with rapt attention: with even the slightest increased pressure, Mia's ribs creaked underneath the elf's hard round heel and the muscular ball of his sole.

After a menacing pop, the prone woman's chest bowed upward—a blunt triangle of bone rose between her breasts and stressed the flesh there until her skin turned a bloodless white.

Even Shea winced as he waited for Mia's chest to be torn open.

But the bony protrusion lowered in the next moment and left a red mark in its wake instead, as Telor's foot lifted and quickly adjusted its angle.

He brought his sole down once more. This time he covered one side of Mia's chest: his toes rested atop her right breast, just under her demolished shoulder.

Telor gripped at her soft mass with his long digits. He squeezed with enough force that Mia groaned in pain. As Shea watched with wonder, Telor squashed Mia's breast into a bulging pancake; he slowly wiggled his toes so that its plumpness danced beneath them, and enticed more worried moans out of his prey. With each fanning wave-like motion made by his toes, Telor exerted greater force, and Mia's breast bulged like a balloon overfilled to a worrying degree—

Her breast burst.

It ripped open in a ring around its too-stressed periphery.

Blood flowed out across Mia's chest as the woman screeched with abandon. Shea caught a disturbing glimpse of her inner workings: her red-slick, yellowed fat was revealed by the ragged tear in her flesh, and ruptured veins uselessly squirted jets of blood into the air.

Telor's strength was inhuman. How effortless such extreme carnage was for him. Again it must have been the magic sparks that Telor had so rudely blown into his mother's face, Shea ruminated, for even the elf's lightest touch had devastating consequences.

His magic must have also sustained her life force, as Shea had surmised, for no creature that the human knew of in those woods could survive the horrendous damage that Mia continued to wail through—then gurgled through.

When Telor's cruel foot lifted, Mia's bosom was left in a state of half ruin.

There was so little of Mia left with how her limbs were trampled, her shoulder caved-in, one side of her chest flattened. Yet still there was life in her eyes—the faintest glimmer, but it was there.

Shea had never watched a person die before. But he had hunted animals for their dinner, and knew how truly fragile life could be. Mia should be dead. He knew this, too. In fact, despite how her head moved, his mother was already surely clutched within death's unshakable grip. There was no way she could come back from what Telor had done to her.

The thought sickened Shea, but not for any right or noble reason.

How truly appalling a notion it was—Shea's heart was broken, and yet his heart seemed to float in a void inside of him, in a place he could not reach.

His guts, his mind, his soul—all of Shea revolted against how excited he was to witness what Telor would do to the helpless little head and battered torso that remained.

To watch Telor end what he had started.

To go all the way.

Mia's sullen, stricken visage lolled to the side. Her dark brown eyes found her son's, which were the same shade—he had her eyelashes, too.

Those eyes: a pair of twins.

Lifelong companions.

Yet each appeared so alien to the other, then.

There was no motherly rebuke in Mia's clouded gaze; there was fear, horror, hopelessness.

She was alone in that tent. Abandoned.

She had no son—not there.

And Shea's eyes—more than any other part of him, Shea was most aware of how steady his own gaze was. The rest of his body tensed and flinched and fought itself, but his eyes were unblinking, unwavering, eager.

His eyes took, and did not give.

Telor's lovely foot clamped down on Mia's head. Shea chortled at how her face contorted as she moaned with fresh pain, squeezed underneath his Master. Her skull popped loudly in protest. Shea fully expected Telor's foot—so perfect in profile—to effortlessly squash Mia's head at last.

Shea wanted to see that.

He craved that sight.

"Yes," Shea heard himself whisper.

His tongue licked his lips; he was aware of this motion in a disconnected and distracted way, as if removed from his body, as if he floated just above his form.

His eyes were as big and round as an owl's, and full of orange fire, lit by the genteel flame in the center of the dim room—which rarely crackled, as if it watched, too.

Shea's lips curled: "Beast," he whisper-growled, and glared at his destroyed mother.

When the youth glanced up at Telor's angular, pretty face, he was ecstatic to meet his Master's gold-and-emerald gaze.

"Smash her," Shea urged; "Crush it," he hissed.

"Oh, ho," Telor tittered delicately under his breath, and added a warmly spoken, resonant, "pet."

But the deific elf did not drive his leanly muscled leg downward, or send his foot to the ground with his usual malicious glee—his leg elevated instead, and a jilted gasp escaped Shea.

Telor chuckled, but Shea was too lost as he observed how the man's foot soared to notice.

Telor's foot ascended, as graceful as the long-necked birds that sometimes shared the lake with Shea. The elf's lengthy, dextrous toes flexed. The curved arch of his incomparable sole changed from a smooth and alluring plane to an arrangement of supple wrinkles. The limb's upward trajectory paused, and Telor's playful digits wiggled around each other—a movement that seemed just for Shea, and spread waves of pleasure that bounded up and down Shea's spine—just before the foot dove south.

As if in for the kill; as if after its prey.

Shea could not breathe, or blink.

Time froze, and reality was still.

Only Telor moved. Only Telor existed.

The grinning elf's foot returned to the base of Mia's ribcage, and this time the upper musculature of his sole, and his long toes, pressed down with ruthless finality. A loud and brutal pop played prelude to how Mia's sternum bloodily erupted from amidst what was left of her her bosom—bone shaped like a shark's sinister fin breached the surface of her flesh—and her lowermost ribs were pressed flat in an awful cacophony of squelches and snaps.

Her murderer's lips made a shape like an O as he hooted, as if with surprise, at how Mia came apart.

Telor's expression was full of devilish glee, and he stood with his hands on his hips—it was a powerful pose, to Shea's mind: Telor did not need the strength of his arms, or his hands, to "teach" this beast, only his killer feet. Telor barely put any effort at all into Mia's murder.

With a haughty laugh like he had read Shea's thoughts—which the youth would believe possible if Telor told him it was—Telor drove one of his feet into the ruination of Mia's body; she moaned horribly, her voice flat and blood-drowned and just barely audible.

Telor kicked his leg upward and flipped a bloody flap of the woman's bisected chest over—Mia's quiet scream deflated—and the flop of gore spread out under her horribly trampled arm smashed at her side, like a joke of a wing. The elf repeated the process with her other side. He dug his foot into the cavity of her torso and turned her chest over—the part that held her intact breast—so that it plopped underneath her opposite arm.

It was a gruesome sight beyond Shea's wildest nightmares: Mia's chest divided in half and spread out like an open book. Her inner machinery, which struggled and failed, was laid bare by this act, and still Mia lived. She sobbed breathlessly as Telor started to march in place on top of her; he wore a wolfish grin.

He stomped one of pushed-out flaps; he stomped the other flap. Blood gushed out in all directions as her turned-over breast popped with a wet splash.

One by one her quivering organs were mashed flat. Telor stepped on each of these purple or reddish balloon-like structures with relish. He kicked out long sloppy ropes from her guts, and then pressed them thin so that they formed snaking patterns on the floor—almost like the tattoos that adorned Telor's torso. Telor paid particular attention to two large inflating and deflating sacks, and air was forced out of Mia's mouth, choking how she gurgled when he stepped onto these.

His mother's body was truly destroyed. Shea had envisioned a pancake of gore. Now here it was, and the reality was far more dreadful and wonderful than he previously imagined.

It was bloody art; she was fully a creation of Telor's feet.

That one thought was enough that Shea loved to gaze upon her, and with great interest he studied how Telor's feet continued to work on her.

Mia's form was still there, in shape, but it had been—and continued to be—pounded magnificently flat by the elf's relentless soles. Her limbs were crooked as lightning bolts, and the way her skeleton and compacted flesh was arranged on the ground, and her ribs were stamped out to her sides—her profane wings—made her appear more avian than human. At the top of this obscene wreck was her head, which moaned, and begged wordlessly, and wailed without air. She pleaded constantly but weakly, and it was all unintelligible—her voice was little more than a slurped hiss.

Only Mia's heart was left intact in that mess. A red little fist clenched tightly around her fast-fading lifeforce.

Telor stepped off of Mia. He stood just to the side of her, and stared right at Shea.

The tall, handsome elf's slow-growing smile was as beautiful and as satisfying as a sunrise.

His radiant flesh shone gold.

And there was Mia at Telor's red-soled feet, Shea's own mother—your own mother! a voice in his mind screamed—reduced to a head: face, skull, brain.

Her eyes swam in their sockets as her head rocked to and fro. She paused to lock Telor or Shea with a glazed glare—but like a capsized ship that filled with water, she could not keep her head steady for long.

Her body was ruined, trampled. Her exposed, smashed organs pulsated. Ruptured tubes peeked out from her carnal remains. They weakly squirted arcing spurts of blood, like some hellish fountain, as her heart continued to function beyond the point of terminal failure. Her lungs fluttered and collapsed; they spilled air out of the tears in their sack-like structures and refused to fill any further.

She was a trampled bird.

A blood eagle.

The youth had to lick his lips to unglue them from one another.

"My... She's. . .

"It's beautiful, Master," Shea murmured.

Telor showed all his shapely teeth then, and they sparkled inside the frame of his cruelly shaped lips. "You lovely thing!"