From The Local Office
#1 of Fuck The IRS!
This was originally written as one story with ellipses, but chapters are so much more fun. If you're not a big fan of swearing, humor, angry sex, or you work for the IRS, please humbly read no further. For the rest of you, just remember to keep a little Gerald Richards in your hearts this tax season.
And if you are one of the lucky few to pull a Gerald Richards, please post a video of it, so that we can all enjoy it.
Fuck The IRS!: Part 1:
From The Local Office
He looked at the Account Professional, who looked at him. She looked at her computer again, then looked at him again. She smiled and opened her feline jaw to speak. "Well, by our records it should have been sent to your account on the..."
"This is complete bull-shit! I've called this office ten thousand times and I keep getting the fucking run-around. Then I get, 'It should have arrived, it was directly deposited to your bank account!' Well, then where the fuck is it? I've been on the phone systems for hours. This is my second, fucking, time in this shit-hole and I'm not leaving until I get some answers. So, seriously." Gerald Richards, a very angry German Shepard, paused for effect.
"Who do I have to FUCK to get my tax return?"
The Account Professional looked at him, her feline jaw open in shock. "What was that, sir?"
He repeated, this time much slower. "Who, do, I, have, to, FUCK, to, get, my, tax return, question mark."
They shared another moment of silence, and Gerald grabbed a 1040EZ Form from a pile on the counter to his right. He reached across the Account Professional's polyboard desk and retrieved a pen from a black, Rubbermaid bin. For the First Name, he wrote, "Who." For the middle initial, he wrote, "Do." And so on, until he handed the startled feline the completed paperwork.
She rose from her ergonomic swivel chair. "Let me get my supervisor, sir." She left his field of vision.
Gerald Richards, who had completed his tax return on the first of February, stared at the American Flag Calendar with X's through every date before June 17th. He had still not seen a dime of his hefty tax return check, and he had been asking for information as to how to rectify this delicate misunderstanding for the last two months. His recent outburst being the culmination of his feelings toward the internal revenue service after being forwarded to every wrong number in the Federal Government Directory and listening to the same, obviously incorrect, statements about the whereabouts of his funds.
"Hello..." The rotund breasts of a female fox in a business suit came back into his field of vision.
"Gerald Richards." He replied and did not shake her outstretched paw.
"Yes, well... please step into my office, Gerald. I'm Mrs. Holland." He followed the stiff orange tail of the business woman, and the shapely bottom surrounding it. They led him into a brighter room, with slatted windows to the parking lot and a wooden door, which the fox then shut behind him. "May I call you, Jerry?" She asked.
"No, you may not, but you may fucking tell me where my fucking tax return is!" Gerald looked her in the eyes. She looked away and scuttled around him, to the front side of the oak cabinet desk furniture. The unsightly thing was covered in papers and pens, all held together in some elaborate paper clip system. The glow of the long florescent lights on the ceiling gave her fur a fuzzy shine.
"Yes, Gloria informed me of your displeasure. I think I may be able to help you." This new approach took Gerald off his guard, and he visibly softened, if only for a moment. She smiled. "I am, of course, the proverbial, 'person to fuck,' in this office"
"Then, where the hell is my tax return?" Gerald asked, his finger pointing in nowhere particular.
The vixen shrugged, stretching her lower back on the edge of the desk. "Probably lost somewhere in cyberspace. We don't make mistakes. We're the IRS." She smiled down at him, slithering her long neck. "But, we can, however, make 'exceptions.' And I think you would be an excellent candidate for an 'exception'." Her strapless black pumps fell from her feet.
The German Shepard saw her rhythmic seduction, and hated her even more for it. "I just want my fucking tax return, you bitch!"
She un-buttoned her vest, letting her unhindered breasts spill cleavage from the V of her white dress shirt. "Then, show me what you've got."
Gerald snarled loudly, ripping his belt from around his waist in one swift pull. "Gladly." He was rock hard even before the zipper came down.
In one quick motion, the Vixen's navy blue skirt was ripped upwards and draped across the desk. It clung to the white fur on her stomach, a large tear down one side. Mr. Richards did not bother with ripping off the bitch's panties, he crudely stuck two fingers into her moist folds, and pulled it to the side. He wasted no time in plunging his veiny ten-inch cock into her steaming pussy.
She screamed with the harsh invasion, her legs shaking when his thrusts buried himself deeper and deeper. Gerald gripped her hips, scattering W-2 forms across the carpet and began to fuck her with his red hot dick. The thing skewered her insides, the bulbous tip like a small plum stretching her like her husband's business never could. She was forced to grab her breasts, just to keep the pendulous DD-cups from bouncing and hitting the bottom of her jaw. When Gerald hit bottom with his huge knot forming on the outside of her lips, the furious pounding only became worse.
"I hate every fucking one of you." Gerald growled, feeling her legs lock around his back. "I just want my fucking money!" He couldn't believe she was moaning and panting so loudly with her back arched over her workspace. He was fucking her, pounding her as hard as he could, bumping her cervix with every pistoning of his hips, and she was loving it. His weight was pressing down on her cunt like a jackhammer, and he could even feel his knot slapping the puckered opening of her ass on each individual downstroke.
After three minutes of abuse, his balls were screaming for release. He was using her like a whore, like a machine, just letting her have it, and he panted, his long tongue dripping saliva on her stomach. When he felt her pussy clench around him, he lost it. She was vibrating, her entire body wracked with a mind-blowing orgasm, and he slammed into as deep as possible and let her milk him. His cock was too large for her small, untrained vagina to tie with, so he just pumped his seed, washing her walls with his hot cum. The vixen had her fingers glued to her own nipples, squeezing them like her chest would burst at any moment. It felt great to just slip from her while her body protested, so he grabbed his dick and gave her stomach a few generous white trails, before the feeling began to dull.
The German Shepard lifted his slacks, and replaced his shrinking member inside it's cloth prison. He panted, "Now, where's my fucking tax return?"
She was slow to respond, lifting to her elbows heavily, then reaching into one of the cabinet doors to her left. She pulled out a white card in her greasy black fingerpads, and handed it to him. The fox was flushed, abused, ripped, torn, and her office disheveled, cum dripping onto the few files left underneath her. "I'm afraid you will have to visit this man. He has a little more pull in the administration for exception cases. I'll let him know you're coming, of course. I'm sure he'll be glad to help."
He grabbed the card, scanning over the address and sneered. "Better be the fucking place to get shit done."
She licked her lips. "Never said it was easy. Don't hesitate to call, if you need anything." Her toes wiggled at him.
He looked at the IRS agent still squirming on her back like a worm. "Clean yourself up, you look like a fucking mess."
He left the door wide open, showing the girl at the front desk his favorite middle finger as he stepped outside.
***