ODD TRIO
                            
                            by

                        Mickey Bee 


                         Part One


     Andrea is a world class head turner; she is a tall, slender, 
big-breasted dewey-eyed blonde whose face alone could have the 
Pope mumbling to himself. She is feminine to a fault: a fact 
demonstrated daily by the way she dresses, moves, talks, even 
tosses her hair when she laughs. Andrea is the stuff of dreams. 
Particularly mine. And I was determined to have her.

     When she came to work for our small agency a year ago, every 
man and boy in the shop hit on her. Including myself. And as 
owner and C.E.O. of the thriving agency, I thought I had a pretty 
good shot of scoring. I'm young, single, reasonably attractive in 
a Woody Allen sort of way, I'm in pretty good shape, prematurely 
mature perpetually horny and very financially secure. Yet try as 
I did (and believe me, I tried) I got nowhere with Andrea. Not 
that she was cold or aloof, far from it. She was warm and 
gracious and funny and an extremely talented artist. But I just 
couldn't get anywhere with her.

     Our relationship grew slowly and wonderfully from the day I 
hired Andrea. We kept business, business, and semi-socialized 
only at an occasional lunch which, over the weeks and months that 
followed, developed into almost everyday affair. Our first few 
lunches quickly revealed that she wasn't married, never had been, 
didn't date, rarely went out at night and that she spent most of 
her off hours engaged in her "serious" painting. Naturally, I 
began to wonder what was wrong with me, not her; did I have a 
catastrophic personality flaw? Bad breath? Did I look like 
Quasimoto's kid brother? What was it? I couldn't figure it out 
and it was driving me crazy.     
     
     And then, suddenly, it all came clear. In a moment of purely 
coincidental, unmitigated fate, I learned the answer. I was out 
one night, wining and dining an important new client at a 
fashionable, out of the way French restaurant. We were seated at 
a small table near a cafe curtained window and when I happened to 
glance out, I spotted Andrea. She was coming out of a bar, a gay 
bar, and she was arm-in-arm with a woman nearly as beautiful as 
herself. I literally spilled my soup all over myself. It had 
never, ever occurred to me that Andrea was of the Sapphic 
persuasion. That realization devastated me and I mourned the 
loss, holding out a tiny flicker of hope that I was somehow 
mistaken.
  35 3 
     At lunch with Andrea the next day, I steeled myself with a 
drink (something I never do during working hours) and casually 
mentioned to Andrea that I could have sworn I saw her exact 
double come out of The Blue Flame with a beautiful woman last 
night. 

     Without a moment's hesitation or showing the slightest 
embarrassment, Andrea said, "Oh, no, that was me. Why didn't you 
say 'hello' or something?" 

     I quickly drained the last of my drink and stammered, "You, 
you're gay!?" 

     Andrea made a face and said, "No, silly, men are gay. I'm a 
lesbian," then casually added, "are you going to eat your cole 
slaw?"

     "Why didn't you tell me," I finally blurted? 

     "Why didn't you ask," she answered coolly? I can't begin to 
imagine what my face must have revealed, but whatever it was, it 
wasn't lost on Andrea. She lowered her beautiful, smoldering 
blue-grey eyes and with a mocking, dejected tone in her voice 
said, "Oh, shit. Does this mean I have to pay for my own lunch 
from now on?" 

     I couldn't believe it. I stared at her, wide-eyed and open-
mouthed and just broke up. I was laughing so hard, the entire 
restaurant turned to look at us. Embarrassed and unable to thwart 
her own laughter, Andrea got up and tried to get me to drink some 
water, dribbling it down my chin to my pants. That made her laugh 
even harder and I cracked up again. Through my choking, 
uncontrollable laughter, I finally managed to reply, "and does 
this mean I'm never going to get into your pants?"  And still 
laughing like a couple of crazies, we walked arm and arm down 
Michigan Avenue back to the office.

     From that day on, our relationship changed dramatically and, 
I hasten to add, for the better. I went back to seriously 
pursuing and bedding other women (as did Andrea, I'm sure), but 
we still took our lunches together nearly every day, occasionally 
adding after work drinks to our repertoire. I was notably more 
relaxed around her, now that I stopped trying to impress and 
seduce her and our friendship deepened and blossomed. Our 
conversations became more personal and downright gossipy and I 
began to feel more like her hairdresser than her employer.

     When we occasionally went to the popular watering joints 
after work, I could literally feel the envious stares of every 
guy in the place as I escorted this breathtaking creature through 
the crowd to a quiet table in the back and hoarded her to myself 
all night. Little did they know that more often than not, we were 
discussing and evaluating the women in the bar like a couple of 
locker room buddies. Andrea would pick out a woman and say   3k 3 
something like, "I'll bet that brunette's a real scratcher and 
screamer" or "look at that chick's face, she looks like she 
hasn't cum in five years" or "check out the tits on that redhead, 
don't they look delicious." Needless to say, after a few drinks 
and night of titillating conversation like that, I'd have to 
hustle up an old, warm, willing friend for a mercy fuck on my 
way home from dropping Andrea off.     

     Then one night, even that changed, too. Andrea and I were 
out for dinner and the conversation quite naturally turned to 
sex. Even though we were both lamenting how difficult it was to 
find good sex partners, the mood was light, bordering on silly 
and we were swapping funny sex stories from our past. Andrea told 
me about an older woman she had really liked and had dated for a 
while until the woman started getting weird. She would shave 
Andrea's pussy, put ribbons in her hair and dress her like a 
little girl. That was okay with Andrea once in a while, but when 
it became the staple of their sex life, Andrea bowed out. And 
then there was another woman, a young doctor, who was obsessed 
with Andrea's breasts (and who wouldn't be, I thought to myself). 
The woman used to suck her tits constantly, often falling asleep 
with Andrea's nipple in her mouth and waking up the next morning 
still sucking. The young Madam M.D. gave Andrea hormone shots and 
after weeks of constant suckling, Andrea began to lactate, much 
to the delight of this woman who would then literally milk her 
twice a day. Andrea said that she began to feel like nothing more 
than an old cow and eventually broke up with the doctor. "Not 
only that," Andrea laughed, "she cost me a fortune. My tits got 
so big, I had to keep buying bigger bras. And what am I supposed 
to do with those potato sacks now?"

     I laughed with her on the outside, but on the inside my cock 
was screaming for mercy. And I told her as much. "Okay, that's 
enough," I groaned, "if we keep talking about this stuff, I swear 
I'm going to have to go to the men's room and give the old 
professor some relief." 

     Andrea grinned. "You're kidding," she teased. 

     "I am not kidding," I protested, "my problem is, I don't 
think I can stand up right now." And in fact, I couldn't. 

     Andrea looked at me and a sly, sexy expression crossed her 
face. She leaned into me, giggled like a little girl and 
whispered, "I want to watch you masturbate." 

     I nearly choked on my coffee. When I regained my composure I 
replied, "now who's kidding?" 

     "No, no, I mean it," she answered sincerely, "I've never 
seen a man do it. It'd be a trip. C'mon, don't be such a 
candyass."

  3! 3 
     It wasn't the worst proposition I'd ever heard. I thought 
about it and smiled. "Okay," I nodded, "on one condition. You let 
me watch you do it." 

     Andrea didn't even think about it before answering. "It's a 
deal. Get the check."   

     Even though it was a short distance from the restaurant, we 
took a cab to her small but beautifully decorated apartment and 
Andrea led me to the bedroom. As I had suspected, it was a 
decidedly feminine room dominated by a big brass bed, Laura 
Ashley wallpaper and fabrics and yes, silk sheets. But then 
things got a little awkward. We couldn't agree who was to go 
first and flipping a coin seemed too cold to both of us. So we 
decided to at least undress simultaneously, one article each, and 
see what developed.

     I took off my shoes and Andrea kicked off her heels. I 
unbuttoned my shirt and threw it on the floor; Andrea pulled her 
sweater over her head and shook out her long blonde hair, but she 
was still wearing a nearly see-through silk blouse beneath her 
sweater. I stripped off my socks - two items; Andrea peeled off 
her blouse and wiggled out of her skirt. I was down to two items, 
my pants and underwear while Andrea was still ostensibly fully 
dressed. But despite my protests of "unfair", I didn't mind at 
all. She was wearing the sexiest lingerie I could have hoped for 
- or died for: a satin camisole, push-up lace bra, minuscule, 
transparently sheer white panties, a delicate matching lace 
garter belt and long nylon stockings that seemed to have been 
painted on her incredibly gorgeous legs. 

     I reached for my belt and stopped, looking at her and 
smiling. "Wait a second," I protested feebly, "you're wearing 
more clothes than me." 

     Andrea just shook her head and smiled back. "Too bad, sport, 
deal's a deal." 

     I shrugged, unzipped my pants and stepped out of them, 
deliberately facing her. My tiny bikini underwear did little to 
conceal the hard-on of a lifetime blazing upwards between my 
legs. Andrea looked unabashedly at my barely restrained cock, 
smiled and pulled her camisole off.       

     That vision will stay with me till the day I die. Her body 
was the nearest thing to perfection that I have ever witnessed. I 
literally lost my breath. "Oh my God," I heard myself groan. 

     "Oh my God, nothing," Andrea chirped, "drop your drawers, 
sailor." 

     I pulled my bikini off so fast, I nearly tripped. Released 
from its nylon restraint, my rigid cock jumped straight out and 
up, throbbing and bobbing up and down like a lunatic. I grabbed   3W 3 
it, just to hold it steady, and grinning like the fool that I 
was, nodded to Andrea, indicating her bra.   

     Andrea shrugged and reached for the front closure of her 
bra. She unhooked it and teasingly peeled the fragile lace away 
from her tits. "I always knew you were a boob man," she chided as 
she shook the straps off her shoulders, causing her tits to sway 
gently like water balloons. 

     I thought I had died and went to mammary heaven. Up close 
and personal, Andrea's tits were far larger than I had ever 
imagined, and I had done a lot of imagining about them. But as 
big as they were, they were exceedingly firm and capped on their 
upper slopes with huge, perfectly circular areolas and the 
longest, thickest, fleshiest nipples I have ever seen. And they 
weren't even erect yet! Andrea later told me that the condition 
of her nipples was a permanent result of her "milk maid" episode, 
but I'm getting ahead of myself.

     Although I could barely walk, Andrea guided me by the 
shoulders to the bed, fluffed up some pillows and told me to lie 
down and make myself comfortable. As I did, she moved a large 
armchair to the side of the bed, her breasts swaying with every 
step, and sat down, facing me. Just watching her, I automatically 
began polishing the Bishop in long, satisfying strokes, praying 
that I wouldn't pop the cork too soon. Andrea just watched me, 
more fascinated than aroused. 

     Between concentrating on the task at hand, the incredible 
feeling surging through my swollen balls and my frequent glances 
at Andrea's magnificent tits, I could barely speak. When I 
finally found the breath and strength to speak, I looked at her 
and gasped, "aren't you supposed to be doing something, too?"  

     Andrea smiled seductively at me and whispered, "what makes 
you think I'm not?" As she spoke, she lifted her long, stockinged 
legs over the arms of the chair and I glanced down at her pussy. 
The sheer white triangle of nylon covering her cunt was soaking 
wet. I almost lost it right there. I had to squeeze the base of 
my cock and hold it for an eternity to keep from squirting.

     Andrea noticed what I was doing and grinned. She closed her 
eyes and began massaging her tits, seductively moving her hands 
to her nipples and squeezing them awake between her fingers. As 
big as her nipples were "at rest", they grew even more prodigious 
beneath her fingers, rising like two crimson red thumbs as her 
areolas constricted into smaller circles. She momentarily lost 
her breath and, shuddering, licked her lips to moisten them. 
"Wouldn't it be funny," she gasped, smiling, "if we were both 
fantasizing about the same woman."

     I had to keep from laughing. The thought was so Andrea. I 
turned my head away, closed my eyes and went back to pumping the 
professor.  -2-2 
     "Tell me when you're going to cum," Andrea interrupted, "I 
want to see it." 

     "Don't worry," I replied between short breaths, "you'll be 
among the first to know." I glanced back at her and watched her 
long, delicate, perfectly manicured fingers languorously move 
down her trim body to her pussy. I held my breath as she pulled 
the skimpy fabric of her panties to one side and slid her finger 
into her glistening wet slit and began masturbating very, very 
slowly. Although she was not shaved, her sparse, blonde, baby 
fine pubic hair barely concealed her puffy cunt lips. As she held 
her outer lips open with the fingers of one hand, revealing her 
engorged pink and white clit, the fingers of her other hand 
gracefully poked in and out of her deep red inner lips, 
occasionally dancing around her clit before sliding slightly up 
her tunnel.

     I watched her, excited, aroused, fascinated, pumping my 
pecker with more authority. I knew I couldn't hold out much 
longer. "Andrea," I gasped, "this is it, babe, volcano time."

     Andrea's eyes were squeezed shut. Her hips were rotating in 
the chair in perfect rhythm to her finger flicking over her clit. 
"No," she groaned, "no, wait, wait, not yet." 

     I'm not a man of steel. I clenched my teeth, trying 
desperately to hold back despite the few drops of clear white cum 
forming on my piss hole. "Andrea..." I implored. 

     "Wait," she whimpered. Her whimpers grew louder, tuning into 
what I can only describe as sobs. Quickly, she withdrew her 
finger from her clit, licked her fingertips and went back to work 
on her puss. 

     That gesture was it for me. Groaning louder than I would 
have liked, I clamped my eyes shut, my body convulsed and 
shouting Andrea's name, I began shooting the biggest, thickest 
load of white cum I had ever shot in my life. The first spurt 
arched in the air and landed high on my chest. As the second 
spurt ejected, Andrea screamed. I looked over and saw her fingers 
buried in her cunt while her thumb frantically played with her 
clit. Her entire body heaved and jerked and her tits swayed from 
side to side. And I came again, the thick cum falling into my 
belly and running down over my balls. And I kept it up, stroking 
myself, roughly pulling my dick, enjoying the aftershocks and 
spasms that continue after ejaculation. 

     After several long minutes, when I was finally able to look 
back at Andrea, she was gently stroking her rigid nipples, eyes 
closed, smiling peacefully, trying to catch her breath, too. Her 
entire body was flushed and there was just a hint of perspiration 
mingled with pussy juice all over her breasts, belly and pubes. 
She opened her eyes half way and smiled at me. "Was it good for 
you, too," she teased in a sexy whisper?  -2D-2 
     "Yeah," I grinned, "not the worst time I ever had in my 
life."  I was sweating like a guy who just got a reprieve and 
escaped the chair. As my breathing slowly returned to normal, I 
knew I had to gamble with her. "Look, Andrea," I said softly, "I 
can't take this. I've got to make love to you." 

     Andrea barely shook her head no. "I can't do it. I can't 
fuck men."
 
     "Why not?" My question was sincere. 

     She answered just as sincerely, "for the same reason you 
can't." 

     "But that's not fair," I protested, "men don't turn me on."

     Andrea smiled sweetly. "I rest my case."       

     I knew she meant it. Any fantasies I might have harbored 
about being such a great lover that I could fuck a lesbian back 
to the straight life quickly evaporated. I rubbed and squeezed my 
faltering prick, helping it come down slowly and glanced back at 
Andrea. I watched her fingers move in slow, sensuous circles 
around her erect nipples, my hopes of sucking those beauties 
fading like my cock. "You're right," I finally nodded, "I'm 
sorry, that was unfair of me."

     Andrea shrugged and smiled, almost sadly, I thought. Then, 
regaining her usual cheerfulness, lifted her eyes and swept them 
over my naked body. "No control, huh, big boy," she joked, "you 
really let things get, as they say, out of hand. Look at the mess 
you made."    

     "Mess? What mess," I countered, rubbing my globs of cum into 
my body? "I don't see any mess."

     Andrea laughed and eased out of the chair. Her panties were 
still pulled to one side of her cunt, but she made no attempt to 
cover it. She moved over to me and took my arm, pulling me up. 
"C'mon, sport, let's hose you off."

     "Oh, please, no," I groaned, resisting her gentle tugs on my 
arm. "I can't move. I'm stuck. Cum does that, you know."

     "No, I don't know."

     I opened one eye and gave her my best skeptical look.

     "Well you can stew in your own juices if you want, I'm going 
to take a shower."
     
     I opened my other eye. "Is that an invitation?"

 -2z-2 
     "You want it engraved on your forehead?" Then, glancing down 
at my shriveled dick, added, "obviously it's too late to engrave 
it on your foreskin." 

     I persuaded my limp body to rise and swung my legs off the 
bed. Andrea was still holding my arm and I made no move to pull 
it away, enjoying what little contact she allowed. From my 
sitting position, I let my eyes slowly wander up her body and 
just shook my head, sighing loudly.

     "Oh, come on," Andrea chided, "I'm sure this wasn't the 
first time a lady asked you to take matters into your own hands."

     "No," I confessed, "but when I did, I knew things were just 
beginning, not coming to screeching halt like this."            

     Andrea thought about it for a second and shook her head, 
understanding. "Okay," she nodded, "tell you what. You want to 
take off the rest of my clothes?"

     "Coals to Newcastle," I intoned.

     "Take it or leave it."

     "I'll take it."

     "Somehow I figured that."

     I got off the bed and, turning her slightly, got down on my 
knees and looped my thumbs in the waistband of her panties and 
began to pull them off. "Crumbs," I mumbled, sliding her sopping 
panties down her sheer nylons. 

     "Be happy for small favors," Andrea casually reminded me. 
She stepped out of her panties and planted her feet on either 
side of me. 

     Leaning in toward her, my face just inches away from her 
beautiful, juice drenched pussy, I reached for the small wire 
closure of her garter and slowly unfastened it, closing my eyes 
so I could inhale the sweet, musky, heady fragrance of her flared 
cunt. With the first garter clasp undone, I slid my hand between 
her warm thighs to reach the back garter. Andrea stiffened. I 
stopped. And looked up at her. "Did I hurt you," I asked softly?

     Andrea shook her head curtly. "No."

     In that moment, I instantly realized that her schtick wasn't 
an act. She genuinely abhorred the sexual touch of a man. I 
withdrew my hand and stood up, moving around to her back to 
unhook her garter belt. "I think we can get this off all in one 
piece," I said cheerfully, trying to regain our earlier mood. I 
peeled the garterbelt off and pulled it down with her stockings 
still attached. I helped her step out of her stockings and she  -20-2 
smiled at me. She knew I understood. And I knew she knew I knew. 
We showered together, but it was infinitely more hygienic than 
erotic. Andrea soaped my entire body with a washcloth, not her 
hand and when she sudsed my cock and balls and I started to grow 
an uncontrollable boner, she slapped my cock playfully and told 
me to cut it out. Oh, Christ, would that I could. She allowed me 
to wash her back, with a washcloth, of course, but not her 
breasts and certainly not her pussy. 

     When we finished, I padded back to the bedroom while Andrea 
lingered in the bathroom, doing whatever women do in bathrooms so 
long. I was almost finished dressing when she finally came back 
and paused in the door for a moment, watching me. 
     
     "Where are you going," she asked softly?
     
     I turned to Andrea's voice, about to answer when, as she did 
so often to me, nearly took my breath away. She was radiant; a 
vision; an absolute goddamned goddess. Her hair was piled high on 
her head and her freshly scrubbed face glowed angelically. She 
was wearing a tantalizing black lace nightie that hugged every 
curve and nuance of her body denied me. "Jesus Christ," I 
muttered, wanting to cry out of frustration, "how can you keep 
doing this to me?"
     
     Andrea swallowed. "Do what," she asked innocently? "I just 
want to know why you're getting dressed. Aren't you going to 
stay?"

     "Andrea, Andrea," I repeated softly, shaking my head, "I 
can't. Uh-uh, no way. It would not be humanly possible for me to 
get into bed with you and keep my hands to myself, much less my 
dick which has a mind of it's own."

     Andrea lowered her eyes for several moments and then 
silently looked up at me. Her beautiful eyes were clouded and a 
small tear ran down her cheek. She took a deep breath and let it 
out slowly. "Mick," she finally whispered, a subtle, ironic smile 
forming on her lips, "I'm sorry. I can't apologize for who or 
what I am, but I am sorry. I know this is going to sound crazy 
but, you're the best friend I've ever had in my whole, miserable 
life. And I love you, I really do."

     I let my jacket slide out of my hand and I moved across the 
room to her. Hesitating, just a heartbeat, I put my arms around 
her and pulled her close to me, hugging her tightly. "Listen, 
babe," I whispered in her ear, "you want to hear crazy? I love 
you, too. I don't think I've loved anyone as much as I do you."

     "Stay tonight. Please, tell me you'll stay tonight."

     I did. We slept curled up all night on fresh smooth silk 
sheets with her warm, lush, black laced body spooned into mine. 
I never laid a finger on her. And it wasn't easy. In the  -2f-2 
morning we showered and dressed and went to work like Mr. and 
Mrs. America.

     The weeks that followed were sheer hell. We still lunched 
together everyday and occasionally had dinner. And the fun was 
always there. Always. And I was absolutely obsessed with Andrea, 
thinking about her every waking moment. But I went on a fucking 
binge, nailing anything and everything that had a warm cunt and a 
willing disposition. I even fucked a fifty-five year old 
grandmother who lived in my building. And she wasn't half bad. 

     I went to a therapist. She told me that I was obsessed with 
Andrea because I couldn't have her and was punishing myself for 
some deep feelings of guilt I harbored since childhood. She 
recommended I begin intensive psychotherapy and suggested sex 
therapy would be a good idea as well. I ended up fucking my 
therapist right there in her office. She was, as Andrea noted, a 
screamer and scratcher.

     Andrea and I laughed about it as I sat on her bed and she 
tended to the fingernail wounds the therapist inflicted on my 
back. We shared our stories of misery; Andrea confessing that she 
was having casual sex with a few ladies, but it wasn't doing much 
for her. She went back to painting at night. And her work 
reflected her mood. Dark, brooding colors and angular strokes 
where once there was softness and light. In truth, though, the 
work was some of her best.

     It was that night that Andrea proposed an idea that she felt 
might work for both of us. She suggested a third party. I didn't 
immediately warm to that idea; it meant that my chances of making 
love to her, not a surrogate, were really out of the question. 
But Andrea turned on the sell. She knew, intimately, several 
beautiful women who were bisexual. If she could convince them to 
join us, then I would really be making love to her through them.

     "And you don't think you would be remotely jealous watching 
me fuck their brains out," I questioned?

     "How could I possibly be jealous knowing how satisfied you'd 
be," she answered logically. "What do you say, huh, you want to 
try it?"

     I looked at her and grinned. "Okay, but who gets her first? 
I hate sloppy seconds."

CONTINUED: ODD-PT2.STY