Oliver Strand rubbed his podgy hands with anticipation as Amanda's carriage concluded the gentle twenty-five minute ride from her lodgings and came to a stop outside his house. She'd taken his suggestion as to her dress, and looked every bit as beautiful as he had anticipated.
He had slightly known and been introduced to Amanda before she left the South for college and then England, but they had never really had much to do with each other, certainly not in the way that he liked when he met full breasted, curvy figured young women.
Over the years, he had learned about Amanda's life and was pleased when he heard about her marriage break up and her impending return to the family plantation. Since meeting her properly at the Cotton Christmas Ball, he had become very single minded about his desire for getting her into his bed and that had become a key objective in his life.
But he had bigger plans for her as well. He was aware of her connections in the North from her time at college and living there with her husband. He was also aware that she knew many prominent Yankees, including General Fairfax Lennon. His contacts had informed him that she had dined with the head of military intelligence several times in New York, and also here in Washington just last week.
Fairfax might be head of military intelligence, but Strand had his own very effective network as well. He would have absolutely no compunction whatsoever about adding Amanda to that network and persuading her to spy on her Yankee 'friends.' At the back of his mind was the idea that he could use the assistance he was offering her as a lever to persuade her to feed him information about the North and its plans.
As the carriage stopped in the small shingled courtyard of his office, and occasional living quarters in Foggy Bottom, Strand pushed past the driver and opened the door to the carriage.
"That will be fine, Jenkins," he said, holding his hand out to Amanda as she leaned forward to alight from the closed carriage. "Just put the stairs there for Missus Williams please, I'll handle the rest."
She was wearing a highly fashionable two-colour outfit. It had a tight, white, low cut bodice with black lace around the neck and small, black buttons running up from her waist to the low cut neckline. The black with white piping and lace trimmed skirt was fully hooped and beautifully layered. The fullness of the skirt was in stark, but alluring contrast to the slim, tautness of the bodice.
"Welcome back, Amanda" he said, taking her hand as she stepped down. Her partially covered breasts almost touched him as he bent his arm to aid her progress down the steps, which the footman Jenkins had put in place.
She smiled, "Thank you. It is very nice to be back Mister Strand."
"Now, please, how many times must I remind you? I insist on Oliver and Amanda."
"Why, certainly sir" she smiled. "It just slips my mind to be so intimate after knowing a gentleman for such a short time."
Smirking in an oily way Strand oozed back. "Ma'am, short the time may be, but surely it has been er, how should we phrase it, close and meaningful perhaps? Yes I think that sums up our relationship, don't you Amanda?"
She didn't reply. Instead, she inclined her head to one side, slightly fluttered her eyelids and covered her face with her fan, providing a completely non-committal persona.
Slipping his arm through hers to walk her into the house, he said, "Well then, my dear, this evening presents the ideal opportunity for us both to do something about that. To make it even more close and meaningful, doesn't it?"
Smiling, knowing full well his meaning, Amanda decided to play a coy game. As he stood aside to let her through the doorway, she replied.
"Pray sir... sorry, Oliver! Whatever can you mean?"
Strand had always been a man who took risks, one who chanced his arm, pushed things and sometimes went for broke. He relied on his intuition and instinct, far more than most men. And he sensed that this was a time to go with his gut feel. As they walked into the light oak, panelled entrance hall, he pulled on Amanda's elbow, stopping and turning her so that they faced each other.
Putting his arms round her before she could stop him, he pulled her to him and attempted to kiss her, muttering, "This madam, I meant this."
Amanda's immediate reaction was to push him away, but instinct stopped her even as she began to protest. She needed his help and his connections, and her quick mind whirled into action. Leaning back so that his mouth could not reach hers she said.
"But sir, this is so sudden, so extreme."
Strand went on the offensive. His inner self took over, the self that had raped many black slave and several white trash women. The self that had tortured a variety of harlots and whores and the self that had seen him force himself on so many women over the years.
"Don't talk arrant rubbish," he growled as he pulled Amanda's body against him. "You have known as well as I, that this was going to happen," he muttered pressing his lips firmly against hers.
It was true, of course. After all, she had chosen her outfit expressly for being undressed and having sex with Strand. She had worn her sheerest, black stockings, her sexiest, silk pantalettes and she had daringly dispensed with both her chemise and camisole, and was wearing her corset next to her skin.
The stunningly low cut, French gown had no extra material, as was the American fashion, to cover her breasts. Without the chemmy and camisole, they were tantalisingly on display, much more so than was normal in American society.
She had come to this meeting showing more of the flesh of her bosom than Strand would probably have ever seen on a 'dressed' woman, other than in a brothel, perhaps. Yes, she had arrived at his house with most of her splendid tits on show. And to a man like Strand, that meant just one thing! She was ready and willing to be fucked!
His arms were around his prey's slim back, his fingers finding the laces of her firm corset. Pulling Amanda against his broad chest and crushing her breasts, she gasped with surprise and, she was amazed to realise, excitement.
