The Audit
"The IRS letter arrived three weeks ago. The auditor knows things about him—purchases, deposits, patterns. She's not looking for fraud. She's looking for leverage."
The letter arrives on a Tuesday.
Internal Revenue Service. Notice of Audit.
I've done my taxes correctly for fifteen years. Used the same accountant. Claimed the same deductions. There's nothing to find.
But the words still make my stomach drop.
Report to the Federal Building, Room 412, on March 15th at 2 PM. Bring all relevant documentation for tax years 2021-2023.
I spend two weeks gathering documents. Bank statements. Investment records. Receipts for every charitable donation, every business expense, every line item that might draw scrutiny.
By March 15th, I have three boxes of paperwork and the kind of anxiety usually reserved for surgery.
Room 412 is at the end of a long hallway.
I knock.
"Enter."
Agent Michelle Tanaka is small.
That's my first thought. She's maybe five-two, slight, almost fragile-looking behind the massive desk. Her black hair is pulled back in a severe bun. Her suit is dark grey, perfectly tailored. And behind thin-framed glasses, her eyes are... unreadable.
Not cold. Not warm. Just nothing.
"Mr. Patterson." She doesn't stand. "Please sit. Set your documents on the table."
I sit. Set my boxes down. Three years of my financial life in cardboard containers.
"Your accountant is David Greenfield," she says. It's not a question. "He's prepared your returns since 2010. Prior to that, you used TurboTax. Prior to that, your mother claimed you as a dependent."
"That's... correct."
"You earn between two hundred fifty and three hundred thousand annually. Software consulting. You own property in two states. You have investments in twelve different funds. And you donate fifteen thousand dollars per year to various charities."
She hasn't looked at my boxes. She hasn't looked at anything except my face.
"You've done your homework," I say.
"I've done my job." She opens a folder—my folder—and places it between us. "I know everything about you, Mr. Patterson. Everything you've earned. Everything you've spent. Every pattern in your financial life for the past three years."
"Then you know there's nothing wrong."
"I know what the numbers show." She removes her glasses. Her eyes are dark brown, almost black. "I also know that numbers don't tell the whole story."
She starts with the easy questions.
Income verification. Investment gains. Standard deductions. I answer everything with documentation, and she accepts each piece with a nod, setting it aside without apparent interest.
Then she changes direction.
"You purchased a piece of art last year. A painting. Twelve thousand dollars."
"For my office. It's deductible as a business expense."
"The painting is in your living room."
I pause. "I moved it."
"Before or after you submitted your return?"
"After."
She writes something down. "You claimed mileage for business travel. Eight thousand miles."
"All documented. I keep a log."
"Your log shows trips to a hotel in Connecticut. Sixteen visits over the tax year."
"Client meetings."
"Your client is in New York."
I say nothing.
"The hotel is adjacent to a private art gallery. The same gallery that sold you the painting in your living room." She looks up. "You're having an affair, Mr. Patterson."
The room tilts.
"That's not—" I stop. Start again. "That's not relevant to my taxes."
"Everything is relevant to your taxes." She closes my file. "The painting wasn't purchased for business purposes. It was purchased as a gift for someone. The mileage wasn't for client meetings. It was for personal travel disguised as business expenses."
"You can't prove that."
"I don't need to prove it." Her voice is calm, almost gentle. "I just need to flag it. Recommend a full audit. The kind that takes years. The kind that involves forensic accountants and testimony under oath."
"What do you want?"
"I want you to understand your situation." She stands. She's even smaller upright—barely reaching my chest. But somehow, in this moment, she seems to fill the room. "I've been doing this for eighteen years. I've seen every scheme, every loophole, every creative interpretation of the tax code. What I rarely see is someone who interests me."
"Interests you?"
"Your affair ended six months ago." She walks around the desk. Stops in front of me. "Your credit card shows you bought her the painting. Took her to the hotel. Spent lavishly. And then, nothing. The purchases stop. The trips stop. You go back to your regular patterns."
"She left me."
"She left you for someone richer." Her hand finds my tie. Straightens it. "I read the emails, Mr. Patterson. They're part of your digital financial footprint."
"That's... a violation of my privacy."
"That's the scope of a federal audit." Her hand stays on my chest. Small, warm, precise. "You're alone now. Trying to forget. Throwing yourself into work. Donating to charities that remind you of causes she believed in."
"What's your point?"
"My point is that I've spent eighteen years surrounded by numbers and patterns and ledgers." She looks up at me. Those dark eyes finally showing something—heat, hunger. "And occasionally, I find someone whose patterns tell a story I want to know more about."
"This is inappropriate," I say.
"Yes."
"You're auditing me."
"Yes."
"And you're suggesting—"
"I'm suggesting that I have complete control over the next three years of your financial life." Her fingers trace down my tie, find my belt. "I can make this audit disappear. Flag everything as compliant. Send you on your way with a clean record."
"In exchange for what?"
"For answering a question." She's unbuckling my belt now. "The affair. The painting. The hotel rooms. Was it worth it?"
I should stop her. Should push her away, report her, file a complaint.
But her hands are precise and her eyes are curious and I realize that I want to answer her question.
"No," I say. "It wasn't worth it."
"Then maybe," she says, pulling me free of my pants, "it's time to try something that is."
She drops to her knees.
She's precise in this, too.
Every movement calculated. Every stroke intentional. She takes me deep and works me with a rhythm that suggests years of practice—or a natural gift for reading patterns.
"You're—fuck—"
"Quiet." She pulls back, looks up at me with those unreadable eyes. "I'm working."
She resumes. Faster now. Her small hands grip my thighs while her mouth does things that should be illegal. Which, technically, they probably are.
I'm close in minutes.
"Not yet." She stands, wipes her mouth. "On the desk."
"Your desk?"
"My audit. My desk. Lie down."
I clear the papers—my papers, my life in documents—and lie back. She climbs up after me, small and precise, straddling my hips.
"I've spent eighteen years behind this desk," she says, unbuttoning her blouse. "Processing numbers. Finding discrepancies. Watching people sweat." The blouse opens, revealing a plain white bra. "Do you know what I've never done?"
"What?"
"This." She unclasps the bra. Her breasts are small—proportional to her frame—with nipples that are already hard. Her stomach is flat, her waist tiny. Everything about her is compact, efficient, precise.
She pulls her skirt up. No underwear.
"I plan everything," she says, positioning me at her entrance. "Everything in my life is organized, categorized, filed. But you..." She sinks onto me. "Ah—you're my first spontaneous decision in years."
She's tight.
Impossibly tight. Her small body grips me as she takes me inch by inch, her face showing the first cracks in that professional composure.
"Oh—you're—fuck—"
"Bigger than expected?"
"Bigger than your tax returns suggested." She laughs—a real laugh, surprised and warm. "Maybe I miscalculated."
She starts to move.
Riding me with the same precision she applies to everything. Controlled. Deliberate. Finding the angles and rhythms that work, cataloging my responses like data points.
"You like this?" She grinds down. "Tell me."
"Yes—"
"What specifically?"
"All of it—God—you're so tight—"
"More data." She moves faster. "What else?"
"Your body—small but—fuck—so intense—"
"Good." She's panting now, composure slipping. "I'm going to—I need—"
I grab her tiny waist and thrust up into her.
She screams.
The professional facade shatters.
She rides me wild now, all that precision abandoned. Her small body bounces on my cock while she moans and gasps and makes sounds that echo off the government-issue walls.
"Yes—yes—there—"
I flip her over. She's light—barely anything—and suddenly I'm on top, driving into her while she wraps her legs around me.
"Harder—God—don't stop—"
I give her everything. The desk shakes. Her glasses fall off. Papers scatter to the floor—years of documentation mixing with official forms and federal letterhead.
"I'm going to—" She's close. I can feel it.
"Come for me, Michelle."
"Ah—" She shatters. Her small body rigid, her walls clenching around me so tight it almost hurts. She screams my name—my first name, not Mr. Patterson—and the sound of it breaks something loose in me.
I follow her over.
Fill her while she shakes, while she gasps, while the IRS desk becomes something it was never designed to be.
We lie there. Breathing. Her small body fitting perfectly against mine.
"Your audit," she finally says, "is complete."
"And the verdict?"
"Full compliance." She props herself up on one elbow. Her hair is coming loose from its bun. Her makeup is smeared. She looks human for the first time. "No irregularities found."
"And the painting? The mileage?"
"Creative interpretation of deductible expenses." She smiles. "I've seen worse."
"What happens now?"
She reaches to the floor, retrieves a business card from the scattered papers. Writes something on the back.
"Now you leave. Go back to your life. File your taxes correctly next year."
"And if I want to see you again?"
She hands me the card. Her personal number on the back.
"Then you have a new pattern to establish." Her eyes meet mine—warm now, curious, alive. "I'll be watching your financial footprint, Mr. Patterson. Make it interesting."
I leave the Federal Building with a clean audit and a phone number.
That night, I make a purchase. Online. A small item—tasteful, precise, exactly the kind of thing she might appreciate.
A week later, I get a text.
Nice purchase. I see you're establishing new patterns.
Maybe, I reply. Want to help me document them?
The response comes in seconds.
Friday. 7 PM. My place. Bring documentation.
I smile.
Some audits, it turns out, are worth the anxiety.