Audit This (closed for JPett)

[Sensual_Goddess]

April is a good time of year for accountants. Busy, yes, but an opportunity to make money off people too lazy or inept to fill out their own tax forms. Every discount store has a need for seasonal tax preparation workers. The stores figure if they can help you get check you will spend some of it before you leave, and they are right.

Filling out 1040 easy forms is easy work that requires little concentration on my part, which is good. My husband acts like this is a brand new crisis in his life every year.

"What do you mean I'll have to pick up the kids? I don't even know where the soccer field is," he whined. Yes, whined. And this was before I left the house in the morning. By the time I had driven from my regular job to the store, the calls had already started.

I looked down and saw "Honey" my phone. My husband thought that was so clever. He had yet to detect that when I called him honey, it wasn't a term of endearment.

"Yes, Honey?" I answered, trying not to sound too impatient. I had less than five minutes to get to my desk inside.

"Jason says he can't eat peanuts, is that right?" he asks me.

For a moment I am struck by the absurdity of it all. My husband, the father of my child, can't remember that his son allergic to peanuts. Thank god Jason is 14 and knows not to eat them. This doesn't bode well for the rest of my evening, I think to myself as I answer him as politely as I can muster. I resist calling him stupid.

"Please, keep the calls to a minimum tonight? I've got a full schedule of appointments," I say before I hang up the phone.

I fight the urge to put the phone on silent. He'll just call the store and ask for me if I don't answer him, though. Better to take the calls as they come.

I glanced in the rear view mirror and reached for my lipstick. No time to freshen up, but at least I could add some color to my lips. My brown curly hair had been neatly swept up off my neck when I left the house this morning, but now there were errant wisps falling around my face. I decided I'd be better off to just put the curls into a ponytail instead of trying to put them back up. Not exactly professional, but neat, at least. I was in a casual ensemble since I knew it was going to be a long day; black slacks, red v-neck cashmere-blend sweater, black sensible heels. The shoes would be off under my desk before the evening was done. I would have loved to have been able to toss my bra under the desk with the shoes, but I am one cup size too big to get away with that, at least in my line of work.

There's already someone waiting for me at my desk when I walk to the small maze of cubicles that has been set up for us in the front of the store.

"Great, not even a minute to settle in," I think to myself as I sit down and pull my red framed glasses out of the case.

"Hello, I'm Kate. How can I help you this evening?" I say in my most pleasant, professional tone to the man across from me.

 

[JPett]

Audit This (closed for SG)

"Hey, I'm Andrew," I say with a big shit eating grin as I stick out my hand trying not to look like a complete loser.

The truth is that almost every responsible person on Earth would consider me a complete failure at life. I may be 28 years old, But I acted like I was 18 and that's probably a generous estimate.

It's pretty obvious from my Ralph Lauren polo, kaki shorts, and rainbow sandles that I don't take myself serious enough. Thanks to a public drunkenness charge, atleast my light brown hair is actually neatly trimmed and well kept for once. My mother's lawyer threatened to sandbag my case if I didn't look "respectable" in court.

To me, life is about doing as little as possible. Waking around 10 and beating away my morning wood with the help of some free internet porn is my ideal morning. If I'm lucky and there are some leftovers laying around I'll have a little breakfast.

I hit the gym hard everyday, but when it comes to work, I do as little as possible. As long as I can keep my apartment paid for, buy some beer, put gas in my car, and have enough left over for a dime bag of weed... I couldn't give two shits about finding a respectable job.

However things have changed recently.

My father passed away a couple of months ago. He left me a good wad of cash, but nothing really life changing. And to be honest I have pretty much ignored the whole thing.

The first reason was because of the way he died.

My mother found him in their basement with his pants around his ankles and peanut butter smeared all over the ole cock & balls. Oh by the way my Mother, who has never missed a day of church in her life, also found a copy of "Zombie Gay Midgets from Space" in the DVD player. With her findings and my CSI level detective work, I came to discover that he died watching gay midget porn while his beagle, Fred, licked peanut butter from his scrotum.

The other reason, and probably the real reason I didn't want to deal with my inheritance was that I knew it was going to force me to actually grow up.

I have to make my Dad proud, he had been so smart and worked so hard, I can't fuck this up. So step #1, pay Uncle Sam.

"So you know that fat dude dressed up like the Statue of Liberty dancing in front of your store?" I say rhetorically.

"You should, you work here, and he has green face paint, the torch, and everything."

"His sign said that you guys do taxes, I think. He was flipping it all around which made it hard to read. The first couple of times I passed by I thought it said 'free tacos' instead of 'free taxes."

"By the way, I'm not positive, but I may of hit him with my car pulling in."

"Don't panic, he looks fine, just limping around a little. I'll stop by Duncan and get him a few jelly donuts after I'm done here. Ya know, to make things good. I'm pretty sure that if I was a fat guy dressed like the Statue of Liberty, I would have a serious cravin' for some jelly donuts."

"Just between you and me, if he is bad hurt, could I get that gig? How much does he get paid?"

"Ah never mind, I can't dance."

"So where is the little bald nerdy dude that's gonna do my taxes for free?"

 

[Sensual_Goddess]

First loser of the day, I think to myself, smiling as much as possible. I'm sure you thinks your attempts at humor are SNL material. Yes, you're the first one to make a crack about James, the assistant to the assistant manager at the store. His dad is the big manager, and the seasonal advertising gimmicks are the only jobs James can do. So, yes, your jokes about running in to him are real gut busters.

"The little bald nerdy dude is off today, I hope you don't mind working with me?" I try to play along, but I struggle to be kind to people like you.

Yes, I am a judgmental bitch about irresponsibility. The aroma of cannabis clings to your Polo shirt. Can you deduct medical marijuana? No, you can't, yes, you should be able to, I'm sorry. I've yet to meet a pot head who was responsible for anything more than keeping his bong clean enough to use. You don't seem to be breaking that mold.

I glance down at your messy pile of papers. The tax form you have is crumpled and shows an annual income of roughly 10,000 dollars. I'm not surprised. Then you hand me an envelope marked "inheritance stuff" in a messy scrawl, which I assume is yours.

Before I can open the envelope, my phone buzzes on the desk. "Honey" on the ID. Great, I get to deal with two men who can't think for themselves all at the same time, lucky me. I excuse myself and pick up the phone.

"Yes, Honey?" I say under my breath. "I'm with a client, make it quick please?"

"Where do we keep the laundry soap? Shouldn't it be in the laundry room?" his tone is almost accusatory.

I take a deep breath before I speak. Snapping at him will just get the whining started. Nobody needs that right now.

"It's in the cabinet above the washer, Honey," I say evenly. "Thank you for washing a load," I add, hoping that will give him enough of a lift to keep him off the phone the rest of the evening.

"Oh, I'm not washing a load, just my bowling shirt," he says. He doesn't even know why that would make me angry, so I let it go.

"See you at 9:30, I say with the last bit of pleasantness I can muster up for him. I've got other things to do right now.

I turn to face you, kick my shoes off under my desk, and get comfortable.
"Now, where should we start Mr...?" I ask as I open the envelope you've handed me.

 

[JPett]

Audit This (Closed for SG)

One of your heels bounce out from underneath your desk and underneath my seat.

With out even thinking, I lean over as far as I can, just barely reaching your shoe with my finger tips.

"Just call me Andrew," I say from almost underneath your desk as I prop both your shoes right side up and neatly side by side.

It was then that I first took serious notice of your freshly pedicured feet. They looked so soft and feminine. I was sooooo tempted to reach out and give them the tender rubdown that they so deserved.

But what really grabbed my attention was the way that you had your legs crossed, which caused your thin linen slacks to cling oh so perfectly to your toned and sleek legs.

What I wouldn't give to see you in a little cocktail dress and a pair of fuck me heels, but it's not like that was ever going to happen, I thought to myself.

After spending a second or two starring at your legs longer than I should have, I sat back up in my seat in order to resume business at hand.

"Ummmm, I've gots some stuff here. W-2's, some student loan stuff, and some things regarding the money my Dad left me," as I fumble through a pile of unorganized papers crammed inside a torn manila folder.

As you slightly bend over to look at my disorganized mess, I notice the healthy amount of cleavage peeking above your deep cut cardigan. A cardigan that was purchased one size too small in order to show off the shape of your ample breasts. Nothing slutty, but perfectly sexy.

 

[Sensual_Goddess]

I am impressed by your move with my shoes.

It feels good to stretch my toes and flex my feet out of the warm confines of my shoes. I had gotten my pedicure a day early, knowing I would be tied up here every evening this week. I love having my feet massaged. My manicurist uses a light almond oil, and her hands feel like heaven as she rubs my feet, applying pressure to just the right places. When she runs her fingers along the soles of my feet it's an almost tickling sensation I can feel touch me deep inside. I have dozed off in the chair before, and I think I might have had an orgasm a time or two. I leave a generous tip every time, just in case. It's better than anything I get at home, that's for certain.

I see paperwork for a student loan in the messy pile of papers. College? I'm pleasantly surprised, and make a mental note to ask you what you are studying when I get things in order. 28 was a little old to be in school, but it was a different impression than I had gathered from your appearance.

The documents regarding your inheritance take a few moments to get into an order that I can follow. I see that the inheritance is due to your father being deceased. Somewhat recently. Should I make mention and offer condolences? One never knows the circumstances, though. Maybe you hated your father and are pleased he is gone. Or, perhaps you are still hurt by the loss. I don't want to open either of those two cans of worms. The waiting area is beginning to fill. I can't spend my whole time this evening with just one client.

Then, my phone rang. Again. Honey.. Damn it!

I shoot you an apologetic look across the desk. This won't be moment," I say as I turn sideways in my chair to afford a little privacy.

"Yes, Honey?" I say, for the third time in an hour.

I'm sure the tone of my voice shows my frustration. I can hear his voice climb when he responds, not quite an octave, but closer to the whine that will set my nerves on edge for the rest of the night. I take a slow deep breath and reach for the pendant that hangs from the chain on my neck. My amethyst worry stone. It's warm from being nestled between my breasts all day. I feel a little calmer.

"I just needed to know when to expect you home tonight, because, well, just because," he let the last because drag out longer than it should have, in an attempt to make me feel bad for being impatient.

Barring any unforeseen difficulties, like a fire, a horrible accident, the end of the world occurring, I should be home at my usual time, is what I want to say. But that will bring on a conversation I am not in the mood to have now, or ever, really.

"9:30, babe, I should be home by 9:30, okay?" I say in the nicest voice I've got.

Poor Andrew will not be getting the best of me, but at least he gets to walk out of here alone when we're done. My husband gets what's left when I get home. He won't be getting my best, either.

"I'm sorry Andrew, where were we?" I ask as I start to organize the pile of papers.