Tuesday, 7 October 2014

Tuesday, October 07, 2014 - ,

Over Her Lap: Book 4

compiled by LSF Publications
Published: Aug 12 2014
Words: 24,640
Category: femdom
Orientation: F/F
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The Mistress of the House
by J Wackford Colton

Mrs Laura Hambleton was in a distinctly foul mood as she and her husband drove into town, in response to a letter from a firm of solicitors.

"I don't know why you arranged this meeting this afternoon, when you knew I had a hair appointment at 3.30. I think you did it deliberately to spite me."

Leslie Hambleton sighed.

"This meeting happens to be regarding the will of my late Uncle Silas, and the solicitors' letter mentioned that it was to our advantage to attend. I would have thought that had some precedence over a weekly hair-do."

"You should have told Mr Whatshisname that we would attend at our convenience and not his. He is no doubt paid handsomely for his services, and is no different from the women in the hairdressing salon I attend. They fit in with me, or I take my trade elsewhere."

Again, Leslie heard that remark in a mood that verged on despair. He wondered how many hairdressing salons Laura had fallen out with this year, and whether there would be any left for her to patronise after the inevitable falling out with her latest. Presumably she'd start again and hope the one she had been to first would have forgotten how awkward she could be. Aloud he said, "Be reasonable Laura. Our investments haven't done at all well this year, and whilst we're not on the breadline, a legacy from Uncle Silas would come in very useful."

"I'm not surprised our investments haven't done well with you in charge!" said Laura viciously. "Only a madman would have invested all that money in that so-called Mexican oil well, which turned out to be a complete fantasy."

Leslie bit his tongue at this last remark. It was Laura who had had this "sure fire tip" from one of her friends at her health club, and had bullied him into investing £20,000. He was not surprised when his money disappeared into thin air. The directors of the company had decamped overnight, and were now no doubt in some Middle Eastern or Far Eastern tax haven, enjoying their ill-gotten gains from the ignorant and the credulous.

To his relief they had reached the solicitors' office. The firm of Lishman, Siddle and Stokes was down an unobtrusive side street, with a dingy entrance. Laura snorted with contempt. She was more used to her lawyers occupying multi-story blocks with opulent offices, justifying the enormous fees they charged.

The receptionist looked almost as old as the building, but she smiled and said: "You must be Mr and Mrs Hambleton, I'll tell young Mr Stokes you're here." With that, she disappeared into the back regions.

"What a shambolic office," Laura said crossly, "I expect 'young Mr Stokes', is as ancient as that TV character, young Mr Grace."