Story Fragment: Receipt
Posted: Mon Apr 13, 2026 6:56 am
Funny story. There's a new story on Literotica about a man who volunteers to be a slave in an African slave market, and it's really hot. I mean, I loved this story! I sent the author a compliment, and told him I really liked the part where she stuffs his claim ticket into a web pocket of her backpack, just to play with his head.
So I'm thinking about that scene, and how I'd like to use it, and I remember VICTORIA'S SECRET PRICE CHECK, and realize his story is almost a total lift of mine, with the gender reversed. Hysterical that I love my own writing so much that I sent the people who plagiarize me mash notes on how great they are.
Yes, I'm an idiot. TOO FUNNY.
Anyway, more to the point, I decided to write a quick fragment about the receipt idea, which I hope you enjoy.
The worst part wasn’t the cement floor digging into my knees. It was the fluorescent lights.
They buzzed overhead like angry wasps, a steady hum that emphasized my helplessness. Every time someone pushed through the glass doors, the cool air rushed in and I felt my nipples harden, and my pussy twitch. The clerk at the pickup desk—some bored goth girl with a septum piercing— could care less about me, or the other girls who came and went for pickup. The others came and went, I just knelt there. She scrolled on her phone while I knelt there, Lot #47, Prime Minus, spread open and waiting.
I shifted my weight, trying to ease the ache in my hips. The collar pinched when I moved. Hunter had texted the clerk forty minutes ago: "be there soon" —but ‘soon’ had dissolved into the sticky silence of the afternoon. The market was thinning out. A man in a grease-stained shirt walked past, picking up a leashed girl. She was crying silently, her makeup smeared. I dropped my gaze before he could catch me staring. She had SOLD written across her tummy and ass in red market, so it was pretty obvious what had just happened to her.
The clerk’s phone buzzed again. “Your boy says he’s here soon,” she said, barely glancing up. Holding it up, and I squinted to read Hunter’s latest text: *Sorry, fell back to sleep, omw now.* My stomach twisted. I was naked in a slave market, legs spread, with a slave bit between my teeth. And my idiot stepson was taking a nap.
Tik-tok.
Tik-tok.
The clerk’s phone buzzed again. "Actually," she said, her bored monotone slicing through the hum of the fluorescents, "he says he’s pulling into the lot now." She tapped her nails—chipped black polish—against the counter. "Finally. You’ve been cluttering up my pickup area for hours, sweetie."
The glass doors swung open with a pneumatic hiss, and Hunter ambled in with all the urgency of a stoned sloth. His greasy hair was flattened on one side from where he'd clearly been passed out, and his hoodie—the same one he'd worn three days straight—smelled faintly of weed and cheap energy drinks. He blinked at me, his eyes bloodshot, then snorted. "Damn, Barb. Prime Minus, huh? Guess all that Pilates paid off."
I wanted him to call me Mom, but of course he didn't. Another annoyance, one of thousands. But kneeling naked legs spread, breasts pushed up, in front of my stepson, was a brand new humiliation, one he clearly enjoyed.
Hunter's grin widened as he took his sweet time circling me, his ratty sneakers scuffing against the cement. "Gotta say, didn't picture you'd grade this high," he mused, reaching out to flick the plastic tag clipped to my collar. "Prime Minus. Guess I know why Dad married you now. My step mommy has the hottest, wettest slave snatch on the block."
My cheeks burned, but worse was the traitorous pulse between my thighs—humiliation and something darker twisting together. Being a Pleasure Slut meant being trained to get off on being humiliated. And it didn't get any more humiliating than this.
If I could have spoken, I would have told him to fuck off. But naked, hands behind my head, legs spread, all I could do was glare up into his grinning face.
The goth clerk sighed, as if this entire transaction was cutting into her very important schedule of doing absolutely nothing. "Got her claim ticket?" she said.
Hunter patted his pockets with exaggerated slowness, his smirk never wavering. “Oh shit,” he drawled, snapping his fingers. “I think I left it in the car. Be right back.” He turned on his heel—deliberately brushing his fingers along my bare shoulder as he passed—and sauntered out the door, leaving me kneeling there with the clerk’s impatient sigh hanging in the air.
I couldn't believe this. Three days ago, I’d been Barbara Ross, CPA, in a sensible blazer and pencil skirt. Now I was Lot #47, Prime Minus, waiting for my stepson to fetch a claim ticket like I was a damn dry cleaning order.
Hunter took his sweet-ass time—no surprise—and when he finally sauntered back in, he was chewing on a gas station hot dog like this was some casual errand, not picking up his stepmother from slave processing. The clerk rolled her eyes so hard I swear I heard it. "Ticket," she snapped, holding out her hand. Hunter wiped mustard off his chin with the back of his sleeve before saying, "Sorry, I musta lost it."
The clerk's sigh could have powered a small wind turbine. "No ticket, no release," she said, flicking her nails against the countertop. "Regulations."
Hunter shrugged again, scratching at the greasy patch of stubble on his chin. “Uh, yeah, but I lost it,” he repeated, as if that explained everything.
"If you don't have the receipt, I can't give you the slave girl."
I felt my pussy tingle as she referred to me as a slave girl.
I watched Hunter check his jeans trying to remember where he put the precious, vital receipt that would restore my freedom. I remembered exactly where that receipt was—crumpled into the pocket of his hoodie, the MAIN CHARACTER hoodie same one he’d worn three days straight.
The manager had handed it to him with a warning: *Keep this safe, son. No receipt, no release.* But Hunter had been too busy staring at my bare tits, his tongue practically lolling out of his mouth like some cartoon mutt, as the wranglers peeled my clothes off right in front of him. I’d watched him ball up the pink slip—carbon paper, flimsy as tissue—and shove it into his pocket like it was a discarded gum wrapper.
Hunter’s fingers dug into the pocket of his SMOKE & CHILL hoodie, rooting around like he expected the receipt to magically appear beneath a wad of lint and loose change. My stomach dropped when he pulled out nothing but a crumpled dollar bill and half a joint. His smirk faltered—just for a second—before he rubbed the back of his neck and gave the clerk that same stupid, sheepish grin he always used when he screwed up. "Uh. Yeah. So, funny story," he drawled, kicking at the floor like a kid who'd just been caught stealing cookies. "Think I left it in my other hoodie. The MAIN CHARACTER one. I think I left it at Steve's house, or the bar. I was pretty stoned."
The clerk was unimpressed, and went back to scrolling her phone. "Can't release her without a ticket. Them's the rules, sweetie."
"Can I talk to a manager?" Hunter said.
"He went home early. His son's playing in the game today."
"Can I pick her up tomorrow?"
TOMORROW! I wanted to kill him.
The clerk finally looked up from her phone, her bored gaze flicking between Hunter and her phone. "Six hour rule," she said, popping her gum. "No ticket, no release. After six, she's unclaimed inventory." She tilted her head, studying me like I was a half-melted ice cream cone left on the counter. "And judging by the way her wet pussy is dripping slop all over the floor, Sales will probably toss her into the seven o'clock auction. Prime Minus doesn't sit on the shelf long."
The clerk's words hit me like a bucket of ice water. *Auction.* My thighs tensed involuntarily, squeezing slickness onto the cement—which only made her point. The clerk smirked, tapping her phone screen toward me like she was presenting evidence in court. "See that? That's not just *wet*, sweetie. That's *market-ready*."
I blushed beet red, even as my heart began to beat like a trip hammer.
Hunter scratched his head, brows knitted in that exaggerated, dopey confusion he always used when he'd screwed up but didn't want to admit it. "Uh. Maybe I left it at home?" he offered weakly, already backing toward the door like a dog who'd just peed on the rug. I screamed into the rubber slave bit—a muffled, furious sound that made my throat burn—but he just waved vaguely over his shoulder. "Relax, Barb, I'll find it. I'll call Steve. Maybe he has it, or he'll remember where we were on Friday night." And then he was gone, the pneumatic doors hissing shut behind him, leaving me kneeling in a puddle of my own slave heat.
The clerk turned to me. Her smirk was different now. Less bored, more wicked, more purposeful. She popped her gum, tilting her head as she studied me like I was a math problem she'd just solved. "Well," she drawled, tapping one chipped black nail against her phone screen, "looks like you've been upgraded from Stepmom MILF to unclaimed inventory, Prime Minus."
She reached under the counter, pulling out wired intercom microphone. "Sales is gonna love you," she murmured, pressing the intercom button. Her voice echoed through the market's tinny speakers: "Pickup to Sales, we've got a Prime Minus no-claim at the desk. Seven o'clock auction material, dripping already. And bring a mop, because the floor under this one is mighty slippery."
So I'm thinking about that scene, and how I'd like to use it, and I remember VICTORIA'S SECRET PRICE CHECK, and realize his story is almost a total lift of mine, with the gender reversed. Hysterical that I love my own writing so much that I sent the people who plagiarize me mash notes on how great they are.
Yes, I'm an idiot. TOO FUNNY.
Anyway, more to the point, I decided to write a quick fragment about the receipt idea, which I hope you enjoy.
The worst part wasn’t the cement floor digging into my knees. It was the fluorescent lights.
They buzzed overhead like angry wasps, a steady hum that emphasized my helplessness. Every time someone pushed through the glass doors, the cool air rushed in and I felt my nipples harden, and my pussy twitch. The clerk at the pickup desk—some bored goth girl with a septum piercing— could care less about me, or the other girls who came and went for pickup. The others came and went, I just knelt there. She scrolled on her phone while I knelt there, Lot #47, Prime Minus, spread open and waiting.
I shifted my weight, trying to ease the ache in my hips. The collar pinched when I moved. Hunter had texted the clerk forty minutes ago: "be there soon" —but ‘soon’ had dissolved into the sticky silence of the afternoon. The market was thinning out. A man in a grease-stained shirt walked past, picking up a leashed girl. She was crying silently, her makeup smeared. I dropped my gaze before he could catch me staring. She had SOLD written across her tummy and ass in red market, so it was pretty obvious what had just happened to her.
The clerk’s phone buzzed again. “Your boy says he’s here soon,” she said, barely glancing up. Holding it up, and I squinted to read Hunter’s latest text: *Sorry, fell back to sleep, omw now.* My stomach twisted. I was naked in a slave market, legs spread, with a slave bit between my teeth. And my idiot stepson was taking a nap.
Tik-tok.
Tik-tok.
The clerk’s phone buzzed again. "Actually," she said, her bored monotone slicing through the hum of the fluorescents, "he says he’s pulling into the lot now." She tapped her nails—chipped black polish—against the counter. "Finally. You’ve been cluttering up my pickup area for hours, sweetie."
The glass doors swung open with a pneumatic hiss, and Hunter ambled in with all the urgency of a stoned sloth. His greasy hair was flattened on one side from where he'd clearly been passed out, and his hoodie—the same one he'd worn three days straight—smelled faintly of weed and cheap energy drinks. He blinked at me, his eyes bloodshot, then snorted. "Damn, Barb. Prime Minus, huh? Guess all that Pilates paid off."
I wanted him to call me Mom, but of course he didn't. Another annoyance, one of thousands. But kneeling naked legs spread, breasts pushed up, in front of my stepson, was a brand new humiliation, one he clearly enjoyed.
Hunter's grin widened as he took his sweet time circling me, his ratty sneakers scuffing against the cement. "Gotta say, didn't picture you'd grade this high," he mused, reaching out to flick the plastic tag clipped to my collar. "Prime Minus. Guess I know why Dad married you now. My step mommy has the hottest, wettest slave snatch on the block."
My cheeks burned, but worse was the traitorous pulse between my thighs—humiliation and something darker twisting together. Being a Pleasure Slut meant being trained to get off on being humiliated. And it didn't get any more humiliating than this.
If I could have spoken, I would have told him to fuck off. But naked, hands behind my head, legs spread, all I could do was glare up into his grinning face.
The goth clerk sighed, as if this entire transaction was cutting into her very important schedule of doing absolutely nothing. "Got her claim ticket?" she said.
Hunter patted his pockets with exaggerated slowness, his smirk never wavering. “Oh shit,” he drawled, snapping his fingers. “I think I left it in the car. Be right back.” He turned on his heel—deliberately brushing his fingers along my bare shoulder as he passed—and sauntered out the door, leaving me kneeling there with the clerk’s impatient sigh hanging in the air.
I couldn't believe this. Three days ago, I’d been Barbara Ross, CPA, in a sensible blazer and pencil skirt. Now I was Lot #47, Prime Minus, waiting for my stepson to fetch a claim ticket like I was a damn dry cleaning order.
Hunter took his sweet-ass time—no surprise—and when he finally sauntered back in, he was chewing on a gas station hot dog like this was some casual errand, not picking up his stepmother from slave processing. The clerk rolled her eyes so hard I swear I heard it. "Ticket," she snapped, holding out her hand. Hunter wiped mustard off his chin with the back of his sleeve before saying, "Sorry, I musta lost it."
The clerk's sigh could have powered a small wind turbine. "No ticket, no release," she said, flicking her nails against the countertop. "Regulations."
Hunter shrugged again, scratching at the greasy patch of stubble on his chin. “Uh, yeah, but I lost it,” he repeated, as if that explained everything.
"If you don't have the receipt, I can't give you the slave girl."
I felt my pussy tingle as she referred to me as a slave girl.
I watched Hunter check his jeans trying to remember where he put the precious, vital receipt that would restore my freedom. I remembered exactly where that receipt was—crumpled into the pocket of his hoodie, the MAIN CHARACTER hoodie same one he’d worn three days straight.
The manager had handed it to him with a warning: *Keep this safe, son. No receipt, no release.* But Hunter had been too busy staring at my bare tits, his tongue practically lolling out of his mouth like some cartoon mutt, as the wranglers peeled my clothes off right in front of him. I’d watched him ball up the pink slip—carbon paper, flimsy as tissue—and shove it into his pocket like it was a discarded gum wrapper.
Hunter’s fingers dug into the pocket of his SMOKE & CHILL hoodie, rooting around like he expected the receipt to magically appear beneath a wad of lint and loose change. My stomach dropped when he pulled out nothing but a crumpled dollar bill and half a joint. His smirk faltered—just for a second—before he rubbed the back of his neck and gave the clerk that same stupid, sheepish grin he always used when he screwed up. "Uh. Yeah. So, funny story," he drawled, kicking at the floor like a kid who'd just been caught stealing cookies. "Think I left it in my other hoodie. The MAIN CHARACTER one. I think I left it at Steve's house, or the bar. I was pretty stoned."
The clerk was unimpressed, and went back to scrolling her phone. "Can't release her without a ticket. Them's the rules, sweetie."
"Can I talk to a manager?" Hunter said.
"He went home early. His son's playing in the game today."
"Can I pick her up tomorrow?"
TOMORROW! I wanted to kill him.
The clerk finally looked up from her phone, her bored gaze flicking between Hunter and her phone. "Six hour rule," she said, popping her gum. "No ticket, no release. After six, she's unclaimed inventory." She tilted her head, studying me like I was a half-melted ice cream cone left on the counter. "And judging by the way her wet pussy is dripping slop all over the floor, Sales will probably toss her into the seven o'clock auction. Prime Minus doesn't sit on the shelf long."
The clerk's words hit me like a bucket of ice water. *Auction.* My thighs tensed involuntarily, squeezing slickness onto the cement—which only made her point. The clerk smirked, tapping her phone screen toward me like she was presenting evidence in court. "See that? That's not just *wet*, sweetie. That's *market-ready*."
I blushed beet red, even as my heart began to beat like a trip hammer.
Hunter scratched his head, brows knitted in that exaggerated, dopey confusion he always used when he'd screwed up but didn't want to admit it. "Uh. Maybe I left it at home?" he offered weakly, already backing toward the door like a dog who'd just peed on the rug. I screamed into the rubber slave bit—a muffled, furious sound that made my throat burn—but he just waved vaguely over his shoulder. "Relax, Barb, I'll find it. I'll call Steve. Maybe he has it, or he'll remember where we were on Friday night." And then he was gone, the pneumatic doors hissing shut behind him, leaving me kneeling in a puddle of my own slave heat.
The clerk turned to me. Her smirk was different now. Less bored, more wicked, more purposeful. She popped her gum, tilting her head as she studied me like I was a math problem she'd just solved. "Well," she drawled, tapping one chipped black nail against her phone screen, "looks like you've been upgraded from Stepmom MILF to unclaimed inventory, Prime Minus."
She reached under the counter, pulling out wired intercom microphone. "Sales is gonna love you," she murmured, pressing the intercom button. Her voice echoed through the market's tinny speakers: "Pickup to Sales, we've got a Prime Minus no-claim at the desk. Seven o'clock auction material, dripping already. And bring a mop, because the floor under this one is mighty slippery."
