3plus/odd-pt1
                                     Mickey Bee
                                    Odd Trio - 1
                                                          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.

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 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
                                                  

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