Confront the gardener. This is all an IRS front, right?

The gardener, her tan lines showing under her ass as she leans forward on her hands and knees in the dirt, turns around to look over her shoulder at you.

"Excuse me, ya dirty slut, but um, what's going on here?" You address the woman from behind, staring at her tight ass in her obscenely short shorts.

"Oh, hi, Ian," she says, and turns around, her hands covered in mud. "I'm Lana, and I'm afraid this, all of this," she waves her muddy hands around, a glob of brown mud sloshing on her left tit, just above the hem of her low-cut, unbuttoned Henley, and dribbling down the jiggly flesh into her shirt. "All of this is just an IRS front. You're in deep shit, Mr. McTea."

Of course you expected this the whole time, but now that it's confronting you, you still aren't prepared! The hot little gardener has a coiled up wire in her ear, and is intently listening to chatter while her iron gaze is fixed on your chest. Your heart is beating fast and heavy. Will they finally get you for what they claim are your backtaxes? Fuck.

Looking around, you observe that most of the figures in the area, from the spunky little maid to both of the fit tennis chicks, are wearing similar earpieces, their gazes similarly steely and fixed on you and your position.

So the whole Mansion is an IRS front.

Still, Kristi, and the others? They were real fuckdolls, used and abused. So... the BJU, probably still isn't an IRS front.

You reach out and grab the gardener by her juicy tit, her dirt-stained shirt soft, ripping too easily under your grasp. She yelps and lurches forward, her knees splashing in the mud. "Oh, god, you fucking scumbag tax criminal!" She shouts, but you shove your cock in her pretty mouth, and with both hands, you deeply throatfuck the tax agent, gardener, fucktoy, or whatever she is, really starting to appreciate this method of problem solving.

The other IRS agents simply continue their fronts, their surveillance, and their stoic gazes, doing nothing to stop the brutal face-fucking of their colleague. The tennis match continues, the girls watching you between every volley. The pool-lounging bikini babe rubs a little oil on her tits, and lays there. They just keep on like nothing happened. Their steely eyes, especially the suspicious chemist or whatever in the lab building, piss you off, though, so you pull out of Lana's mouth, cock slap the ravaged gardener, and kick her in the cooch.

"Ahnnnn," she cries out, and slumps over in the mud. Good, now you can properly facefuck her. You lie down in a push-up position above her face, and rail her, the both of you sloshing the muddy garden earth all around her body.

"Ggrggrglggggllrg." She's struggling, her arms flailing. You can tell that some mud has gotten into her mouth somehow.

You take the earpiece from her ear and listen in. The IRS sting team is relaying your facefuck in detail, with a thrust-by-thrust summary, for the commanders, or the tax office, or whoever the fuck these assholes answer to.

"He's still throat-pounding Lana, but she's not revealed any of the other operatives or the underlying mission of the IRS here in the BJU. We're still green for Phase 3 of Operation Reclamation."

"What the fuck is Operation Reclamation?" you ask the poor muddy cocksleeve on the ground in front of you. "Sounds government. I don't like it." You cum deep in her throat, then, and she shudders, passing out from the exhaustion and lack of air.

Pulling out, you dribble your cum on her, and stand up. You won't be getting any info from her today.

"He's finished with Lana, continue the op," you hear in the earpiece. These Tax Agents barrel on, having been obviously in charge since you first stepped in and met Kristi, though how, or to what end, it's still not clear.