The static is interesting. The IRS will get their dues.

"Op is proceeding, but at this rate, we expect..." The radio goes dead for several seconds. "At two or three throatloads a day... debt recovery will take weeks, and we may need dozens of agents."

You like the sound of all of that, except the debt recovery part. Are they charging you for this somehow? Did that bitch get your ID while you facefucked her into the mud?

"We've got to find a way to extract more resources at once," says another voice in the radio.

You've got an idea. You walk out to the tennis court, and look over the two lovely things swatting the ball back and forth. They're both selling the teen athlete bimbo look real hard, but the earpieces, pocket calculators, and thigh holsters reveal them as obvious tax agents.

Your ill-obtained earpiece crackles "Debtor is on the move. Approaching team 'sport'. Team 'sport', report."

The one serving the ball glances, pretty blatantly, at you, and says, "he's advancing. We'll engage." Then she drops the tennis ball, lets her racket fall to her side, and walks toward you, her pretty blue eyes scouring your body as if you were a junior accountant's first spreadsheet. "Hey, there, um, sir. How are you enjoying the mansion?"

These can't be the agencies field agents, right? They're as incompetent at their covers as the little security slut was at stopping you when you got here.

You grab hold of her cotton tennis vest, and rip it open, understanding now that, IRS or not, these tennis agent tax whatever is still nothing more than a warm-blooded plaything for your penis. "Get over here and help, bitch," you tell the other 'tennis player', knowing she will obey you, for her own professional reasons, as well as because this mansion is located here in the mother-fucking BJU.

You shove the first one to her knees, her perky little tits bouncing painfully. She winces as her knees hit the clay court surface, but then she leans in and slurps up your cock, her tongue wrapping under the shaft to pull the meat into her. She's a real pro... tax agent.

The other one walks up and says, "hello, Mr. McTea, before we speak, I'll have to confirm your identity."

You laugh, no longer concerned by the agency's antics, you dick hard, hot, and wet in this tax agent's throat.

"Alright, what do you need, little bitch? Social? Zip Code? First girlfriend's name?"

The slender, athletic agent bites her bottom lip and squints at you. "What I need, you scumbag criminal, is for you to pay us back, faster. So whatever it takes for you to..." but you don't need to hear this bitch whine at you. You slap her hard, dropping her to her knees beside her 'team sport' colleague, and switch positions, pulling out of one mouth and into the other.

"FGGKKKKHKKKKKK," the second agent grunts, and the first one, still recovering from her own facefucking, begins promptly removing her companion's polo shirt, and sports bra.

Both of these agents have firm, tight little bodies, with jiggly little titties. You thrust back and forth, from one to the other, listening to the IRS radio chatter the whole while.

"Good work, team, but please report!" The radio keeps on shouting. You make sure to keep the teams' mouths plugged though.

Back and forth, you go, from the first one to the second, the girls almost identical, but each a different facefuck experience to be sure. The first one, on your right, has upturned tits, a dull grin, and a tight bun hairstyle that makes her look a little older or more intense than her teammate. The left-hand chick, of a similar build, has torpedo titties, pointing right out from her chest, and doesn't smile, though her pony-tail lends a more casual air to he otherwise stern face. These are obvious tax agents, though, no doubt. The first one's cock sucking is more of a hopeful openness, where she simply allows your cock in deep, squishing the head with her throat, letting you fuck freely. The second girl is much more of a traditional slurper, gacks and slobbers issuing forth as you let her guide your thrust while inside her pretty face.

Finally, you cum.

"Shit, it's at least a 250% collection," shouts some voice in your earpiece. "This changes all our projections!"

It's just as you, and the IRS Agents, had hoped. The more turned on you are, the more you cum. This is the BJU, where money doesn't matter, but interest and fines can be levied in cumloads. The more blowjob you get, in other words, the sooner this fucking agency will leave you alone."

You share the humongous load of debt collection across both of the athletic little double-agent sluts' faces, coating their hair, lips, eyes, everything.

"Ung, fuck you, criminal," says the first one, dribbling cum on the court, hunched over on her hands and knees.

"Thanks for your cooperation, sir. Please continue to pay your debt, or face conseque...auhghghg." She literally gacks up some cum and blows a cumbubble mid-sentence.

The earpiece crackles. "Good work, field team. Report for debriefing post-haste."