Sophia's Choice Pt. 08

TWENTY-ONE

The evening at Peter and Sophia's place proved productive in more then one way, as Iben, who was doing an MSc in Urban Analytics at King's, had the chance to talk to Petsi about the family business in Malmö. This would ultimately lead to Iben doing a ten-week stint in Sweden during the summer vacation between the first and second years of her course, focusing on eco-friendly logistical solutions in the commercial and light industrial sectors. Iben became a frequent visitor to Barnes for the rest of her time in England, becoming a favourite substitute babysitter for the children when Petsi took her holidays.

It was actually on a weeknight when Iben was staying with the Collins family that an event that had been hugely anticipated for a couple of weeks finally took place: the first visit of Veronique to Barnes and the first time the Frenchwoman had seen Sophia for nearly three years. As might be guessed, it was Peter who had brokered the meeting, as he continued to see Veronique from time to time (always without his wife's knowledge) and spent much of his time with her listening to her talk about her old flame. Although Sophia rarely spoke about the woman who had initiated her into lesbian sex and so much else besides, Peter was acute enough to know that she still thought about her a lot and regretted the rift that had been allowed to develop between them.

Sophia had been in emotional turmoil for the entire ten days since Peter had dropped the bombshell that Veronique would be visiting. Many times in the interim she had told him to call the whole thing off, many times she had berated him for arranging the visit without consulting her, many times she had broken down in tears at the thought of meeting that woman again. But it was like water off a duck's back to Peter, familiar as he was with his wife's moods.

Once the shock had subsided, Sophia turned her attention to what she was going to wear for their reunion. Apparently, Veronique would be arriving late and wouldn't need feeding, which was at least one weight off Sophia's mind. Maybe she shouldn't dress up at all. She could just wear what she wore most evenings when she was at home: sweatshirt and jeans or yoga pants. She looked good enough in those. But the closer the big day (V-Day, as Peter called it) loomed, the more Sophia thought about her appearance. First, a couple of days before the visit, there was the visit to the hairdresser and the manicurist. Then, on the eve of the big day, after several window-shopping forays, there was a trip to the swankiest boutique she knew to pick out something to wear.

Ironically, after trying on half the outfits in the shop, Sophia plumped for one of the simplest and most inexpensive dresses in the place: a light green, knee-length, short-sleeved cotton summer dress with a turn-down collar. It had a simple plaid pattern, which resembled the net on a tennis court - white lines against the light-green background. The frock was fitted with a button-down front closure and an adjustable sash belt. For shoes, Sophia walked down the street for a pair of white slip-on open-toe sandals with a mid heel. The outfit made her feel young and - dare she say it? - innocent. Like the day when she first met the Frenchwoman who had turned her life upside down.

It was half past nine when the doorbell finally rang. Iben went to answer it and was taken aback by the Gallic beauty standing at the door. Though she must have been in her mid-forties, Veronique represented the epitome of chic to Iben, who was decked out in her work clothes. As usual, she was wearing black, but hardly widow's weeds, as the outfit - a belted leather-trimmed cotton-poplin mini dress - exuded sex appeal. It was supplemented by heeled sandals and a leopard-skin patterned tote. Her hair had been styled in a classic French bob, with bangs sitting at the brow line. She was wearing bright red lipstick and her favourite Chanel fragrance.

Iben recovered her composure sufficiently to let the Frenchwoman in and showed her into the sitting room. It was currently otherwise unoccupied, as Sophia had had something of an emotional meltdown and was being comforted by Peter upstairs. She had been sobbing a lot but crying very little. Nonetheless, Peter wiped her eyes and talked to her as she reapplied her eyeliner, blush and lip-gloss. Around ten minutes elapsed before Sophia considered herself to be in a fit state to meet the quixotic Frenchwoman. During that time, Veronique had been making the Norwegian's acquaintance, encouraging her to talk about her studies and passing her a name card shortly before Peter and Sophia came down.

'In case you wish to learn more about how the French do these things,' she said enigmatically to the bubbly Norwegian.

After the couple had greeted their visitor with cheek kisses (three each time - the way favoured by Veronique) and had let Iben go to her room, Peter took the decanter of wine he had prepared earlier and filled three glasses. Veronique declined the nibbles - in fact, only Peter partook, even though Sophia had hardly touched her dinner earlier that evening. They made small talk for a while, before Peter signalled a change in mood by dimming the lights, as he had done when Petsi, Karina and Iben had been in the same room not a month before.

Peter had discussed the evening with Veronique at some length during an early evening visit to her place the previous week. The plan was that Peter's role would be strictly limited to that of a facilitator and, if things worked out okay and it seemed appropriate, an observer. However, like so many of the best laid plans, this one went out of the window almost from the outset, when Veronique, who always had a sense for the right move, suggested to Sophia that they rewarded Peter for all he had done to bring them together. This could only have one meaning in such a context, with the soft music playing and both women still ambivalent about making out with one another.

Veronique led Peter to the centre of the room and undid the buttons on his tight-fitting jeans. She drew them down unconcerned whether they brought his boxers down too, which indeed is what transpired. His column swung free, hungry for the attention of these two beautiful women. Sophia, hardly given time to consider the ease with which Veronique was able to manoeuvre herself around her husband and the liberty she took in so doing, bent down and accepted the proffered organ she knew so well and began to dapple it with butterfly kisses. Peter couldn't remember the last time she had been so tender with him and ran his fingers lovingly through her hair.

At the same time, the bow on her dress was loosened by Veronique's adroit fingers, the buttons from throat to waist quickly undone, and the dress removed over her shoulders. The white bra and matching panties quickly followed suit, leaving Sophia naked apart from the white sandals. Despite Peter's misgivings, Sophia had put up no resistance at all. Veronique had once again relied on her instincts and the outcome had - with retrospect, at least - a certain air of inevitability about it.

Content to kneel beside Sophia and watch for the moment, Veronique's wildest expectations for the evening were already being exceeded, as the blonde began to suck on her husband's cock with true passion. Veronique moved a hand to Sophia's back and rubbed it gently, massaging her neck and reaching round to move stray hair out of her eyes and mouth. Sophia felt the touch and rejoiced at it, willing the older woman to attend to her breasts. After a minute - perhaps a little longer (time seemed to be standing still) - Veronique acceded to Sophia's wishes, one hand reaching down to caress her breast, while the other began to massage her butt cheek. It was all done very languidly, very slowly, but the effect it was having on the Englishwoman's libido was powerful indeed.

Almost as if she knew everything that was happening to Sophia, Veronique moved her hand the short distance to Sophia's anus and slid a finger inside her. Sophia suppressed (or thought she had) a moan, but Veronique picked it up. She moved her other hand to the blonde's other breast and began to rub it with a little more urgency. Peter could see what was going on and wondered how long he would be able to hold out. To see his wife being expertly pleasured by Veronique was even more sensual and erotic than he had imagined it would be.

Despite the bombardment that her body was taking at Veronique's hands, Sophia stuck to her task of bringing her husband off, kneeling down for greater comfort and driving her mouth deeper around his flaring tumescence. When Veronique - keeping one hand stationed at Sophia's asshole - moved her other hand from the blonde's breast to Peter's balls, his throat emitted a guttural note and his body started to spasm. Holding on for the ride, Sophia drank down his salty-sweet nourishment, then, latching onto Veronique, who was still fully dressed, kissed her passionately, sharing the still unswallowed sperm with her. They drank from each other's mouths, and when they had drunk their fill, Sophia started to disrobe the Frenchwoman, beginning with the oversized belt buckle. Once that had been unfastened, she found the zipper at the back and tugged the dress down to reveal the black bra and panty set.

These insubstantial items offered little resistance and suddenly Sophia was looking once more at her first female lover in all her glory: the small yet shapely breasts, the trimmed bush and the divine cunt. Pushing her legs further apart, so that the brunette was standing like a slip fielder waiting for a tickle, Sophia attacked Veronique's fleshy labia with three years' worth of desire and frustration. Peter, who had retired to the sofa, with his shirt still on but nothing else, watched transfixed as his wife devoured the Frenchwoman's succulent pussy, which he knew so well. He couldn't remember ever having seen her so wild and unrestrained. It was as if she were taking part in a Bacchanalian ritual, attended by satyrs and nymphs. Veronique was having a hard time of it not to come right into her protegee's mouth. She looked as if she too were in a world of her own. Could it be, Peter wondered, that they were actually in the same place, that they had somehow converged from their different starting points to occupy a piece of common ground inaccessible to him and to all others besides?

Unconsciously, he began to masturbate, bringing his penis to its full length and breadth in just a few strokes. Chancing to look across the room, Veronique saw Peter, saw his magnificent weapon, and it was too much for her. Calling out something in French, she let the orgasm that had been assailing her obtain its release, holding Sophia's head lightly between her two palms. Like a fighter who doesn't hear the bell and continues to land punches after the round has finished, Sophia kept licking Veronique, determined to extract every ounce of goodness from her sweet cunny - the cunny she had lost, but, which like the Prodigal Son, had come back to be received with feasting and with love.

TWENTY-TWO

Both Peter and Veronique understood that Sophia had not yet achieved orgasm, and they were determined that this state of affairs be remedied. Veronique led her to the sofa and laid her down with her head in the place where Peter had been sitting and her feet at the other end of the three-seater. Veronique asked Peter for a cushion, which he fetched from one of the armchairs and handed to her. She placed it under Sophia's rump so that her sex was easier to access. Peter, now shirtless, began to kiss his wife's breasts while Veronique started the long journey up from the Englishwoman's toes. Tantalisingly, she chose to crouch astride Sophia with her ass flagrantly on display to both Sophia and, especially, Peter, who found that it was only inches away from his face. What discipline he needed to exercise to ensure that he continued to make it all about his wife rather satisfy his own carnal needs! How typical of Veronique, he thought, to combine skilful lovemaking with a test of the sincerity and resolve of her fellow participants. At least, the proximity of the Frenchwoman's derriere had a beneficial side effect for Sophia, since Peter's soaring arousal levels needed to find an outlet somewhere, and that outlet was his wife's gorgeous breasts.

Veronique spent time on each of Sophia's freshly pedicured toes, licking them and sometimes taking them whole into her mouth and sucking on them like a lollipop. As she made her way up Sophia's legs she had to shift her own legs and her ass back so that now they were where Peter's head had been, Peter having got the message and retired to the armchair. By the time Veronique got to Sophia's inner thighs, her own pussy was just inches from Sophia's mouth. By the time she got to her pussy, it was lined up above that mouth in a classic soixante-neuf.

'Fucking hell!' thought Peter. 'One of my all-time biggest fantasies!'

Sophia let Veronique get to work on her pussy first, before she returned the compliment. It was so wet that Veronique needed to decide how she would approach her task: to lick her dry was clearly unfeasible, while conventional tonguing and licking would only cause more severe flooding. On mature consideration, she felt it was a situation that required a dual channel approach, with her tongue fucking the blonde's clitoris, while her fingers (perhaps her whole hand?) dealt with the sodden cavern.

Unable to bear the tension, Peter snuck closer in his chair, receiving a wink from Veronique for his troubles. Sophia, for her part, once the assault had begun on first her clitoris and then her vagina via Veronique's middle finger, steeled herself to do her part, extending her tongue and lapping at the Frenchwoman's tight - and remarkably dry - pussy. She sought to establish a rhythm, one she could keep up even when things became fraught. As expected, Veronique took Sophia's ministrations in her stride, not being the type of character who would throw in a few moans to make her partner feel better.

As for Sophia, it was, as you can probably imagine, a rather different story. She was fighting a losing battle almost from the start. The assault on her clitoris, at the hands, or rather tongue, as such an artful practitioner as Veronique, would have been enough on its own in normal circumstances to send her over the top. Add the fingers (Veronique was now up to two) in her vagina and she was on a hiding to nothing. It was her pride - and her pride alone - that was enabling her to stay in the game as long as she was managing. It also undoubtedly helped that she had the little matter of Veronique's now somewhat moister quim to distract her. The fact that Veronique was becoming aroused also functioned to counteract the feelings that might otherwise have overwhelmed her. She knew that the tables were, if not turning, then not so stacked against her as they had appeared to be for so long. She knew she had a chance of making the older woman come before she herself succumbed to the longed-for orgasm.

Sensing that Sophia was putting up stiff resistance, Veronique piled on the pressure, adding a third finger to the mix and using her other hand to finger Sophia's engorged clit. By all accounts, this ought to have been sufficient to send the blonde over the edge, but Veronique realised that the Englishwoman had supplied herself with both offensive and defensive weaponry since their first encounter nearly three years ago. The older woman wasn't concerned about the outcome of their union just yet, but she had to give credit where credit was due. Sophia had progressed far in the art of love.

Sophia timed her next move perfectly, even if the timing owed as much to luck as to judgment. For literally seconds before Veronique was going to plunge her fist into Sophia's messy cunt, Sophia took her index finger and drove it up the Frenchwoman's back passage without a scintilla of consideration for her comfort. She had transformed into la belle dame sans merci. Disengaging herself, albeit briefly, from the still only minimally moist cunt, she took the opportunity to add a commentary track to the performance.

'Take that for playing with my emotions!'

Taking her finger out, but only in order that she could replace it with the middle finger, which was propelled forward with even greater vigour, she yelled, 'And that for fucking my husband!'

Taken completely off guard, Veronique, her hand still inside Sophia (but now limp and useless), bucked and reared, almost tipping Sophia's finger out of her anus. She was about to come and Sophia was determined that having got this far she wasn't going to let her get away with a half-hearted effort. She was going to go out with a bang, not a whimper! A second finger ought to do the trick.

'Mon dieu!' yelled the Frenchwoman, as the second finger went in so roughly that it seemed to scrape the skin off as it careened its way in.

'Merde!' she cried, as Sophia found her obscenely swollen clit and ravaged it with her tongue.

Pleased that she had remembered a bit of O-level French, Sophia decided to put it to good use, as her nemesis spiralled into the first of many orgasms.

'Apres moi la déluge!' proved appropriate enough as Veronique flooded Sophia's mouth with her juices.

Inevitably, perhaps, Peter was powerless to prevent himself from coming, ejaculating into some kitchen towel he had thoughtfully placed in the sitting room before hostilities began.

'Well,' thought Sophia, looking across at her husband spending himself in the armchair. 'Two out of three ain't bad, but we're just warming up. We'll see who's up to the task of bringing me off as the evening progresses.'

TWENTY-THREE

When they went upstairs, Sophia checked herself from saying anything sarcastic to Veronique along the lines of 'You know the way' or 'Make yourself at home'. It would have been churlish in the extreme, and, more importantly as far as Sophia was concerned, she didn't actually know that Peter had ever had Veronique in her bedroom.

Plus, she was in a good mood after winning the battle of wits with the Frenchwoman and was actually, in a funny sort of way, looking forward to watching her fuck her husband. Because obviously that would be the next item on the agenda. As much as Peter might be up for a bit of nooky with his wife, Sophia knew that it was a bit of the illicit stuff with the Frenchwoman that he really craved.

So, she went off and had a nice, long, relaxing shower, leaving the two lovebirds to it. She wasn't too bothered about missing part of the action - such was the state of security that she had attained. Sure, it would be only temporary, but she was buggered if she wasn't going to enjoy it while she had the chance. Anyway, she could hardly believe that Peter was so turned on that he would shoot his load prematurely, especially since the particular frisson of doing it with someone for the first time was not part of the equation with the middle-aged Frenchwoman.

As it happened, Peter and Veronique were happy to chat a bit before they engaged in anything more strenuous. For once, the topic of conversation wasn't Sophia. It was, though, another woman, young Iben, who had taken Veronique's fancy, as she had taken Peter's. Peter told her about her studies and her relationship with Karina, but decided to leave out the part about her growing friendship with Petsi, as Petsi had only recently talked with him about that and she had told him that she felt rather confused about her feelings.

Peter asked Veronique straight out if she had made a move on the Norwegian, and she was quite honest with him, telling him she had let her have her card. Peter laughed at the Frenchwoman's mixture of confidence and chutzpah, while Veronique responded by asking him how his needs were being met these days. Peter knew better than to think this was a genuine enquiry about his relationship with Sophia, and responded in kind by moving the short distance over to where she was sitting on the bed and kissing her with intensity, drawing her into his body so that she could witness the rapid stiffening of his member.