TAX SQUEEZE

Angry businesswomen uses her muscular legs to convince auditor to give her return the go-ahead.

I was in a pissy mood. As a single female and head of a very successful personal training company - the polite term for providing mixed domination wrestling for a fee - I run my business hard and fast and pay what I consider a fair amount of taxes.

So when I got audited, I was not a happy camper. I dressed for the audit in a skin-tight short black business dress that did little to hide my best assets - my extremely muscular, thick and deeply tanned legs.

I stand 5-9 and weigh 160 pounds, ever ounce pure muscle from the thick caps of my biceps, which were also visible in my short-sleeved dress, to my jagged, 17-inch calves that billowed in tanned steel, diamond-shaped muscle with a hint of vascularity from years of bodybuilding.

Sweeping my shoulder-length blonde hair and not looking at all like my 42 years, I strode into the auditor's office, green eyes flashing, and watched with delight as he looked shocked when he watched me sit down and cross my sturdy legs, my 32-inch thighs pushing aside and up the short hem of my skirt, the oaken limbs hewn and golden brown.

"Uh, Ms. Barnes, thank you for coming," said the auditor, name of Stanley Reebus, according to his nameplate, a 50-something, bald-headed fat geek in glasses and with a nervous facial tic.

"Let's make this fast, Stan, I have business to attend to," I growled, crossing my arms, my guns flared. "I expect your full cooperation in seeing that my return is completely in order."

He looked shocked, his mouth open.

"Well, Ms. Barnes, I assure you I am completely professional and will ensure a thorough and accurate evaluation of your return," he said, shuffling my papers before him. "And furthermore…"

"Cut the shit, Stan," I barked, standing to close and lock his office door and walking to his desk to lean on it with my fists, my triceps flaring deeply enough to be in shadow as my arms bulged. "You WILL authorize this return. You'll see on the paper there that I'm a personal trainer, but do you know what that means? I wrestle, Stan, I wrestle men for money, in private, and I beat the shit out of them."

His jaw dropped further as I leaned over his desk, hissing in his face, which by now was twitching madly, his tic gone out of control from the tension.

"And I WILL kick the shit out of YOU, Stan, make no mistake," I seethed. "And don't give me any shit about assaulting a federal employee. Who'd believe it, Stan, and besides, are you gonna admit to everyone a woman got the best of you? I don't think so. So rubber stamp my return and just maybe I'll leave without leaving you in a world of hurt!"

His eyes widened and he gulped loudly.

"M…Ms. Barnes," he stammered nervously. "I don't, uh, intimidate easily…."

I laughed darkly and put one high-heeled foot up on his desk, that calf erupting in tanned steel before his eyes. I rotated it, flexed it hard, watching his eyes dip up and down as the diamond-shape deepened.

"I can't put this on my tax return, but in all actuality, I'm a scissor specialist, you know what a scissor specialist is, Stan?"

He shook his head no, his eyes riveted to my bulging calf.

"I use my legs, and that includes these calves, to put scissor holds on my victims and I squeeze until they scream surrender, now you get the picture?"

He gulped loudly again, his hands clasped before him, then looked down at the papers which he shuffled nervously.

"Uh, Ms. Barnes, perhaps we should start, uh, let's have a seat and..and…"

"You already have a seat, Stanley," I growled, and with one sweep of my powerful arm knocked all my papers and his shit, including a picture of his mousy wife and goofy kids, to the floor with a clatter. "And I'll sit right here!"

I spun to sit on the desk before him, legs wide, his eyes open and scared and looking briefly at my cotton silk thong as I reached for his head with one hand and pulled him forward, snapping my twin towers of muscle together and imprisoning him. I laced my ankles tightly and leaned backwards, back arched, as all 32-inches of muscle in each rock-ribbed thigh exploded alongside his skull.

"ARGHHH!!" he screamed in agony the way my clients scream, then could scream no more as my fierce adductors knifed into the sides of his head and neck with such savage fury they scissored the voice from him.

"Stanley, you're getting the full treatment for free, and it usually costs my scissor toys 300 bucks an HOUR!" I growled through clenched teeth as I glared down at him, his bald head glowing red in my thigh embrace. "Now, you gonna rubber stamp that FUCKING return or do I REALLY let you have it?"

His hands trembled as he pawed the thick slabs of meat that are my thighs, his fingers vainly digging into the crevice of quad and hamstring, deep fleshy rivers of muscle that devoured his skull. My thighs rippled and swelled and all but hid his head from view, save for the top of his skull, now turning ashy gray in my clamp, and his eyes, rheumy and red from the incessant pressure. I curled my upper body in an ab crunch, hands behind my head, and looked down at him.

"You're a man of percentages, Stanley, I'd imagine, so get this," I hissed, loosening my thighs just enough to unpack his ears so he could hear. "My headscissors at 100 percent could and right now I'm giving you 10 percent. I'll keep jumping it up 10 percent at a time until you agree to sign off on my return. If you don't, and I get to 100, I'll just tell your superiors, and you're lovely family there on the floor n that picture, that you fell and hit your head. Trust me, Stan, what other explanation would make sense to them?"

I then slammed my thighs back on his skull and bore down.

"Twenty percent, Stanley," I growled, teeth clenched. "You with me yet?"

I knew he couldn't hear me so I grabbed a pen and paper that had remained on his desk and wrote it down, holding it before his watering eyes and looked at him with a cocked head, a "Wellkill?" motion. He groaned and said nothing.

I wrote 30, held it up and then increased my scissor squeeze another 10 percent. His agonized scream vibrated in my pussy. I always like when that happens, and could feel my mound moisten against his face.

I wrote 40 percent, held it up and this is the point most men babble their submission. But not Stanley. He held on, moaning, but did not signal surrender.

"Fuck, you're one tough nut to crack, and believe me, I'll crack those next if have to!" I growled, peeling my thighs off his ears for a second so he could hear. "Fifty percent, Stan, you up for it? Man, you fed workers can be tough pricks!"

"No…please..don't squeeze.." he groaned.

"Will you sign off on my return?"

"No…can't…wouldn't be right…"

With a groan of disgust, I lathered his head in thigh again, instantly giving it 50 percent pressure. He screamed in pain, hands pawing the sweaty girth of my massive thighs, but still wouldn't relent. 60 percent, 70 and still he wouldn't signal defeat, even as my huge thighs quivered from the effort of squeezing him so hard I knew I'd split his fucking skull in half if I kept going.

"You motherfucker," I growled, cupping my hands around the back of his head and sitting up half way to power the hold even harder now, my monster thighs as big as they'd ever been, swollen and ripped around his head. "80 percent it is!!"

My thighs took on a life of their own, quivering, quaking, shaking like fleshy waves of rock-hard meat against Stanley's blue-gray face, his eyes rolling over white as I scissored him and still the cocksucker wouldn't give in.

"Stan, I WILL knock you out and when you wake up, I'll scissor you all over again if you don't sign the fuck off!" I shouted before hunkering down for the final push.

I didn't bother with 90 percent, instead shooting right for 100, my thighs absolutely swollen with angry muscle now, thick veins running like snakes just under my silky, tanned skin, as they pressed inward, quivering and threatening to implode his resistant skull. One puny hand came off my thigh finally and waved weakly in the air before me.

"Fuck you, you make me work THIS hard, you're going OUT!"

I left the 100-percent squeeze on Stanley's head, all of which was absorbed in my undulating thighs now, until I felt his body go limp and then convulse as it struggled to regain consciousness. Finally letting go, I slipped back into my chair as he slumped back into his, snorting as his body slowly and painfully recovered.

It took Stan a good five minutes to fully come back around and when he did, he focused on me sitting there, legs and arms crossed, my massive thighs sweaty and vascular from the effort of nearly knocking him out.

"So, Stan, you ready to sign," I growled, standing, hands on hips and hiking up my skirt to expose every pumped inch of my massive thighs. "Or do we go through this all over again?"

His face was a mass of burst blood vessels, his eyes red and teary, the hair on the sides of his head sticking out wildly. He moaned and reached for his pen, signing off on my return.

"Thanks, Stan, if I ever get audited again, I hope I get you," I smiled sweetly, turning to walk away, pulling my skirt down to mid thigh, a struggle at that the way they were so pumped from exertion.

"But, I do have your assurance don't I?" I said, turning to face him and slapping my thighs together. "That I won't be audited again?"

"Yes, yes, no, I mean, no, never, I swear, I swear," he babbled, recoiling in his seat, eyes fixed on my legs.

I don't know why some people have such a hard time at tax season. For me it's a snap. Or should I say squeeze…