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.
"You know you want me, Amanda," he said, roughly pushing his tongue against her closed lips. She tried to keep them closed, but her sense of pragmatism, that touch of excitement she was feeling and the persistence of Stand's tongue, slowly forced them apart.
To Oliver Strand, a woman opening her mouth and allowing his tongue to slide inside, had almost equal significance to her opening her legs for him to lie between. Both gestures said, you can fuck me!
His kiss was deep and passionate. He kissed her on both lips and then just the top one. He shoved his tongue forcibly deep into her mouth and then sucked on her bottom lip. She shivered as he plastered kisses all over her chin and cheeks, and then down her neck and throat and onto her shoulders.
Strand took her shudder to be excitement and responded by kissing and sucking along her collar bone. His hand pushed against the thick silk of her hooped skirt, trying but failing to reach and feel the delights that lay beneath. The dress was too well made and voluminous for that.
Amanda had such a complex mix of emotions rushing through her mind, and body. Fear, surprise, rage, dislike all welled in her heart. But, most disappointingly of all, she felt excitement. The last time she'd experienced rough sex was with an enormously well endowed, mixed race boxer in London. It had left her breathless.
Despite herself, her struggles were half hearted as she felt a familiar tingle between her loins. There was no doubt that as Strand was becoming more excited by the second so, amazingly and very worryingly, was Amanda.
"Come on, you feisty vixen, you know this is what you want" he growled into her ear.
His hand at last found what it had wanted since the moment he had seen the 'grown up' Missus Williams at the ball last Christmas. He grabbed her not insubstantial breast and squeezed it, not caring whether he caused pain.
"Ouch," she grunted, flinching from the contact. "That hurt."
"Sorry," Strand grunted, but made no effort to slow his actions. Forcing his fingers inside the neckline of her dress, he revelled in the feelings of the mass of soft, pliant flesh in the palm of his hand. Amanda's breast felt every bit as good as it looked. Without consideration for her discomfort, he aggressively yanked the mounds out from the restrictions of the dress, his eyes registering his lust.
"Oh God, Amanda, your breasts are wonderful," he grunted, bending his face towards the soft flesh. His eyes flashed with smug satisfaction at the hardness of her nipple. "You want this as much as I do, you sexy aroused bitch," he muttered, as his mouth closed over her extremely swollen bud.
Amanda's head was in a whirl. She knew she had to go through with this, and part of her was confessing that she did indeed want it, too. But everything was happening too quickly. "Oliver please," she pleaded, trying to push him off.
"No!" he insisted, his voice full of lust. "You knew the price Amanda. You agreed and you know you want it! You want me!"
