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Gretchen owes nearly twenty thousand dollars in back taxes, and there’s no way for her to pay it without losing her new business. Or is there? Agent Brand, the cold, cruel IRS rep she meets with, offers to expunge all trace of her debt if she’ll let him have his way with her. Gretchen reluctantly submits…only to find herself responding to the brute’s rough touches in ways she never expected.
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Screwed by the IRS
By Nixie Fairfax
Copyright 2018 by Nixie Fairfax
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This work contains explicit sexual content and is intended for adults only. All characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
Gretchen shifted about in her seat again, partly out of nervousness, partly to awaken her half-numb butt. She had been sitting in the small, austere waiting room for over half an hour now with nothing to do except worry her guts into ever-tighter knots while she listened to insipid Muzak versions of old rock hits and the clickety-clack of the receptionist’s busy fingers on her keyboard. She glanced down at the small box in her lap. The muffins had probably gone stale by now.
No. She shouldn’t think that way. She had to banish all those negative thoughts and strive to maintain an upbeat, can-do attitude. All the self-help and life-coaching books she had ever read told her that she created her own opportunities, that she ought to reframe every disappointment as a learning experience, that she and only she could take charge of her destiny and determine the course of her life.
All of which was almost impossible to remember when the IRS notified you out of the blue to inform you that you owed over eighteen thousand dollars in back taxes. A panicked call to the agency (fifty-seven minutes of which consisted of waiting for the next available representative) established that they believed she owed the tax on some money she had inherited from her mother, money which she had been assured by a financial advisor was not taxable. And because of that assurance, the money was already gone, every cent invested in her new company, The Yummy-Yummy Muffin Company, the realization of her lifelong dream of having her own muffin business. The only way to pay the IRS the money they claimed she owed would be to completely liquidate the company. It hadn’t even had a chance to turn a profit yet. It would be stillborn. Her dream would be stillborn. It wasn’t fair.
It had to be an error. The financial advisor she had spoken to was a savvy professional who had been in the business for decades. He couldn’t be wrong about something as elementary as this. The IRS had just made a mistake, that was all. Gretchen just needed to bring it to the right person’s attention and it would all be sorted out.
Her odyssey to do so had led her here, to Internal Revenue Service Administrative Center 5 (Subregion Q). She had been told in no uncertain terms that if anyone could resolve her problem, it would be one of the head agents at this office.
She wasn’t entirely clear what went on here. From the outside the building was a bland, white, windowless place that didn’t even have a sign posted out front. Inside, it wasn’t much more hospitable. A humorless guard at the entrance had directed her to this white-walled, gray-carpeted waiting room that was entirely devoid of life save for the receptionist, whose stony expression didn’t budge an inch as she told Gretchen to please be seated. The woman’s face was like a mask, as tight as the bun of hair perched at the back of her skull. Gretchen had thanked the woman and given her the biggest, friendliest smile she could, hoping to melt that icy face, to touch some common human core. But the woman’s dark-brown eyes had merely swiveled away from the smile and returned to the computer screen while her perfectly manicured fingers resumed clickety-clacking across the keyboard. Gretchen couldn’t help noticing that there wasn’t a nameplate on the woman’s desk. There weren’t even any photos. Nothing to liven things up at all.
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