April 15th is fast approaching. I looked over all my tax stuff the other day. Oh shit! Brought back memories of a few months back when I was audited by the IRS for last year's return.
I am a high-priced call girl. Very high-priced. I doubt you could afford me. But I'm worth it. I file a tax return reporting all my income. Surprised? It's not that unusual. Really. The elite of our profession are competent business women, most are very educated and intelligent. Surprised? I have an MBA from a prestigious university. This is business. The business of sex. Supply and demand. Sex sells. Pillow talk also has its rewards. Some of my favorite clients are, well I won't mention names, but insider-trading leads to wise investments.
I was audited because of some unusual business expenses I claimed, particularly related to my office. You see, I move my office around and never spend more than a week in one place. Precautions. Most of my offices are in and around Las Vegas. I do spend some time in Reno, Denver and Salt Lake City also. And let me tell you, those Mormons are horny dudes! Must be because they had to give up polygamy. Almost as horny as Catholic priests, especially the Polish ones, although the Mormons don't usually beg me to fuck them in the ass and they will eat pussy if it's salty.
When I received notice of the audit, I requested the IRS auditor meet me at my current office in Reno. I told James Street, the auditor, it would be best if he actually saw what these offices of mine were all about. He got permission from the head honcho to conduct the audit at my place.
My office during that week of the fateful day of the IRS audit was a luxury two-story suite at the largest hotel and casino in Reno. Last time I had the Safari Super Suite but this time it was the Roman Super Suite. It was a two-story penthouse of more than 4,000 square feet. There was a dramatic circular stairway, three luxurious bedrooms and five baths. The master bedroom had hand carved classic Italian marble statues of Roman heroes and gold gilded hand carved furniture. Two cast bronze lions were at the foot of the lavish canopied bed. The formal dining room had cut stone arches, marble columns and gold leafed Corinthian capitals and frieze rims, imported Italian Bottocino marble floor and walls with gold tile features and hand made mosaic murals.
The IRS auditor, James Street, arrived at my "office" almost an hour early. I had just woken and was still in my jammies. I padded to the door in my bare feet, wearing an imported white cotton pajama bottom with cropped legs, a drawstring waist and embroidered with cute little kittens. The handkerchief matching top was in my left hand as I opened the door with my right. I couldn't do the hook-and-eye closure. At least not at that sleepy-eyed moment. I didn't want to keep the IRS waiting.
James and I hit it off right from the start. I think I startled him with my candor. I guess he was used to suspicious and apprehensive types. "James, you just ask for whatever you want, whatever you would like to know. And please call me Angela."
"Thank you, Angela, I will. I must say you are a very, very attractive young lady."
"Well, thanks James, but I assure you I look better when I have been awake for half an hour and have had my first cup of coffee," I replied as I struggled to fasten the handkerchief top. "You are quite early."
"Yes, Angela, I'm sorry, I should have called. My first audit of the day ended early. I had to call the sheriff. I think Mr. Lewiston, my first appointment, is on his way to prison for tax evasion. You would not believe the scams that some people try to pull."
"I can just imagine, James. Let me assure you that I want to pay my fair share to Uncle Sam and would never do anything I thought was illegal or unethical."
"I believe you, Angela. You have such an innocent and honest face. Let's get started if we might. What exactly are the nature of these personal services you provide?" James asked innocently. "On line A of your Schedule C all you put down for business or professional activities was 'personal services.' What to you do?"
"I am a masseuse. A very special masseuse. Not only do I massage the body, I massage the mind. That is what makes my personal services very distinct, innovative and expensive."
"That's difficult for me to picture, Angela. Can you give me a detailed description of exactly what you do?"
"I'll do better than that, James. Let me show you. It won't hurt, I promise. You will understand much better if I demonstrate."
"Well, I uh, I don't know, I uh ... "
I grabbed him by the hand and led him up the spiral staircase to the master bedroom. "Just sit on the bed, James. You don't even have to take off any clothes if you don't want to. This is not a sex thing. Didn't you ever have a real massage before? Just pretend I'm a masseur, you know, a guy. A straight guy who just gives other straight guys a massage. You look a little tense. I guarantee you will be totally relaxed and re-energized by this experience."
"OK, Angela, but I would have great difficulty pretending you are a guy. A massage might help my aching back. I see a chiropractor twice a week and it doesn't seem to be doing much good."
"Good boy. Now we'll start with your hands. You must write vociferously and use a computer incessantly. Although men certainly are not as prone to carpal tunnel syndrome as women, a man's hands should not be neglected."
"James, you have very strong but gentle hands." I placed my thumb on his palm and gently pressed and massaged the back of his right hand with my fingers, rubbing between the tendons of his fingers. The soft area on his palm below the thumb and below each knuckle was next. Then I worked on the tips of his thumb and each finger, pressing and pulling tenderly. I switched to his left hand and purred, "James, do you like a good hand job?" He blushed and I thought he looked cute when he was embarrassed.
Next I pulled off his shoes and socks and started tickling his feet until he mildly protested. I pressed and massaged the tendons on the back of his left foot, and then concentrated on the ball of his foot between his big toe and the soft area below his other toes. I worked on the first joint of each toe by pressing on the bottom and top with her index finger and thumb and gently pulled forward for a few seconds. He sighed when I began to rub his arch and heel expertly. I then switched to his right foot. And you should have seen him squirm when I began to suck his toes!
"No, no, Angela, please stop!" He squealed as I slurped on his big toe.
"Yeah, right, James, do you stop when a girl says 'No' to you? I don't think so." I did let his squirming big toe loose after a few more minutes.
"OK, James, now what's really hurts and throbs? What would you like me to rub and suck next I wonder?"
