I mean, he also wanted a blowjob, but it was kinda ancillary.  LOL!

Getting paid for sex (or sex-based services) is the one time I feel like a person.  Like so much else that is repressed, the desire for self-esteem pops up in the strangest places.

Everytime we see Nick, I'm reminded that we still haven't seen how Amber actually becomes tiny, and I marvel at the fact that I still can't predict precisely how it will all go down.  Even more intriguing, I'm not all that impatient to get there.  I can't think of any other size smut stories where such a key expository scene is deferred this long, but it doesn't seem to matter in your story.  Whether it was an accident or a deliberate decision, we know Amber well enough to know that in her head it's all her fault and nothing less than she deserves.

And that's some first-rank character-writing, right there.

That was some lovely stinky slimy squeezy smut.  And I still love Amber taking pride in getting Megan off.  There oughta be a macrophile version of Stockholm Syndrome named after Megan's cunt.  Amber doesn't tell us whether she got off before Nathan showed up, but I bet she did.

It would be an excellent use of dramatic irony if it turns out that Megan's own self-loathing is the spur necessary for Amber to develop some self-preservation.

Still looking forward to the initial size explorations with Cathy.

I ended up nude and six inches tall in her mailbox, reeking of pussy, with my arms, legs, and mouth tied from movement by sewing thread, trying desperately to make myself noticed underneath spam mail.

What a fucking tease.  As I said before, it takes rare talent and skill to keep us on the hook while this plays out.

Jeanne reminds me of some of the worst people I've heard about in the foster care system.  Her dreams really fucking came true when she opened that mailbox.

I'm always heartened when Amber finds a shred of dignity and happiness, and then I feel dread when she builds it up too much, because I know exactly how she'll react to the inevitable disappointment. Still, all it takes to make a diamond is heat and pressure, right?  And time.

Go get recharged and come back when writing is fun again. We'll just chill in this comfy drawer. I'll try to keep my corner clean.

As incredible as the idea of a five-inch(?)-tall person has to be to Eliot, the notion that Amber could possibly have contributed in any way to Megan's injury has to be at least as implausible.  On top of that, he's just witnessed his Jean B threaten to maim a small child (the closest analog to Amber).  He'd have to be really dumb not to realize how Jeanne and Megan have been regarding Amber in recent weeks.  He can decide to repress this knowledge for the sake of preserving his relationship with Jeanne, but it won't stop gnawing at him.

I don't know what it will take for Amber to soberly appreciate how to navigate Eliot past Jeanne.  If I saw my wife threaten a helpless person with that degree of violence, I'd be the one throwing up.

Am I a horrible person for trying to calculate how much more money Amber would make as a six-inch-tall camgirl?

Yes, yes I am.

Immediately after my most indulgent Happy Hour in months might not have been the best time to read this chapter.  Allow me to date myself: you have Aladdin, I have Garp.

Most dismaying phrase in the story to date:  "Sober karaoke."

http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cygCfqyeLig/U-zksd-PWRI/AAAAAAAATe4/hi-oaSQog8A/s1600/Robin%2BWilliams%2BThe%2BFisher%2BKing.jpg

I don't know if I definitively identified Eliot as an alcoholic, but he's clearly got the low-self-esteem swing-cycle that makes him feel like he "deserves" to indulge in drink and then later feel shitty that he abused himself (and others) by drinking.  So, the revelation about Jeanne translates into "Life dealt me a shitty hand of cards, so I'm going to indulge myself to feel better."  And now he's overcompensating by "rescuing" Amber.  Where's she gonna sleep, the glove compartment?

Patterns of abuse, followed by patterns of shame.  For everybody.  And no one sees a way of getting off the merry-go-round.

Re the Jeanne-Eliot-Amber 3-way.  You're right.  I have a filthy mind.  As a punishment, I'm not allowed to touch booze or myself for a month.  Yes, I am ashamed of myself.  Thanks for keeping me on the straight and narrow.

(Just think of it as foreshadowing/flashbacking for Nick-Cathy-Amber.  I'm dying to know which of those three first suggested it.)

I'm glad you find my comments helpful.  I don't typically give reviews with this level of regularity or detail, but this isn't a typical story.  My chief concern is one you've already admitted: I'm not usually comfortable with the idea that I (or any reviewer) might influence the direction of a story.  I'm here to get my size smut itches scratched, but it's cheapened somehow if I know an author was just responding to my request.  Half the thrill comes from believing that someone else independently finds the same scenarios as arousing as I do.

Clearly, your story has gotten under my skin for more than the expected reasons.  You've been receptive to my comments and that's been gratifying, but I'm realizing that I'm still exploring what I want out of size fiction (either as a reader or as a writer) and what is possible to achieve.  While I've committed to writing only what genuinely excites me and I don't take requests, I am finding that I want my stuff as widely read as possible, and the simple truth is that shorter stories get read more frequently than longer stories.  I also think it's a valuable skill for a writer to be efficient with plot and prose.  So, as I move from scenario to scenario, trying on various themes and encounters, I've always been conscious of the need to be concise.

Don't get me wrong; I don't think your writing is inefficient or unengaging.  Quite the opposite.  But as far as reader expectations go, I don't know if I would dare try something this ambitious.  I'm not worried about your investment in this story; it's obviously something you have to get out.  I'm just fascinated, both as a reader and as a "patron" of size fetish fiction.  It's works like these that push the boundaries of genre expectations, and I really cannot wait to see what comes next.

This is far from the first "long-form" size smut story on this or similar sites, and I'm familiar with other authors' characters who have been put through the wringer with detail and depravity that exceed Amber's perils.  Some of those sagas have large followings, if only because of the soap-opera-like attachment one can form with such characters.  But it's my impression that most such narratives feature very simple characters with painfully obvious motivations.  That might make sense for a simple erotic encounter where there's little room for dramatic development, and their travails can be very satisfying, but trying to string them out into a series of scenarios punctuated by awkwardly-telegraphed shifts in motivation just makes me hungry for grown-up characterization.

And then along comes Amber.  And Megan, and Cathy, and Nathan, and Sean, and Nick, and Jeanne, and Eliot, and Kirsten, and Mom, and Yvette, and Jim.  Any one of these characters has ten times the depth that is typically required for a satisfying vaginal insertion scenario, and yet you somehow find room for all of them in there, and no two encounters are the same (except when the tedium is the point, but even then Amber responds with organic reflection).

So, yeah, this is an exercise in masturbation, but I hope this story demonstrates that some things are worth edging for.