Husband Turns Gay: Chapter 10

Abstract: The 10th of 16 chapters.
Amy and Bradley's lovemaking continues. Amy and David's relationship worsens.
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INSERT BEGINING
After their lovemaking, Bradley and Amy took the hotel shuttle bus to the airport. They did not sit nor talk to each other. On the next leg of their trip, Amy worked coach in the back, with no contact with Bradley during their flight to Tokyo. Upon landing, hotel transportation, and check-in, Bradley and Amy did not speak to each other.

After check-in, Bradley walked into the elevator alone to go to this room when Amy ran up behind him and held the elevator door opened. Looking at Bradley she said “give me your room key.” Brad, in shock, said “Amy, this has to stop.” Amy, giving Bradley a firmer, sterner look, held out her hand and said “Bradley, give me your room key!” With great hesitation and trepidation, he handed her his room key.

She pointed out the elevator and said “go and get yourself another key.” Bradley, with hesitation, look at Amy with resignation and disbelief, then stepped out of the elevator.

As he walked down the empty hotel corridor, Bradley's hand trembled as he clutched the new keycard the front desk had issued, the plastic still warm from his grip. The guilt from that night in the first hotel room clawed at him again, sharper now, like a fresh wound reopened by Amy's audacious demand.

He was a man of faith, sixty years old, widowed and steadfast—or so he'd thought until her body had wrapped around his in the dark. Now, in Tokyo's humid sprawl, with jet lag pulling at his bones, she was forcing his hand once more. He walked the hallway in a daze, the carpet muffling his footsteps, until he reached room 1408. The door clicked open under his key, and there it was: Amy's suitcase unzipped on the bed, clothes spilling out like an accusation—her blouse from the flight, a pair of lacy panties.

The sound of running water pulled him toward the bathroom. Steam curled out from under the door, thick and inviting despite the knot in his stomach. He pushed it open, the air hitting him like a warm fog, scented with the hotel's citrus body wash. Amy stood in the glass-enclosed shower, water cascading over her naked form, turning her skin slick and gleaming. She didn't turn at first, just let the spray beat against her back, rivulets tracing the curve of her spine down to the swell of her ass.

Then she slid the door open a crack, peering out with those same brown eyes that had undone him before—steady, unyielding. "Bradley dear, get naked and come in," she said, her voice cutting through the patter of water. "I need my back scrubbed."

"Amy, this—" Bradley started, his voice hoarse from the long flight, but she cut him off with a look, sharper than before.

"Now Bradley. Please don't make me wait."

He hesitated, fingers fumbling with his shirt buttons, the weight of her stare pinning him. The room spun a little from exhaustion, but his body remembered her touch too well—the heat of her mouth, the clench of her around him. He stripped, letting his clothes pool on the tile. His cock hung heavy between his legs, not yet hard but aware, stirring at the sight of her through the steam. Naked, he stepped into the shower, the water scalding at first, then soothing as it soaked him. Amy turned her back to him, handing over a washcloth without a word, her wet hair plastered to her shoulders.

He took it, lathering the rough fabric with soap, his hands shaking as he pressed it to her skin. The suds bloomed under his touch, sliding down the dip of her waist, over the dimples above her ass. She sighed, leaning into it, her body arching just enough to press her ass back against his thigh. "Harder," she murmured. "You've got strong hands. Use them."

Bradley swallowed, the water pounding his shoulders as he scrubbed in circles, feeling the firmness of her muscles beneath the softness. His cock brushed her hip accidentally—or maybe not—and twitched, thickening against her. Memories of that night flooded back unbidden: her lips on him, the way she'd ridden him until he spilled inside her, breaking every vow he'd held dear. He wasn't that man, he told himself, but his free hand betrayed him, trailing the washcloth lower, grazing the top of her crack.

Amy moaned softly, pushing back further. "That's it. Lower." She reached back, guiding his hand, the washcloth slipping between her cheeks now, soapy friction against her hole. She spread her legs a bit, the water making everything slick, and he felt her relax under the pressure. "Scrub there too. Clean me up like you mean it."

His breath hitched. This was Tokyo, not some anonymous American hotel—they were colleagues for God's sake, on a business trip. But the steam clouded his judgment, and he pressed the washcloth firmer. Amy's hand snaked between her legs, fingers dipping into her pussy, and she let out a low hum. "Oh, that feels good. You have no idea how tense I've been, thinking about you on that flight." "Amy, we can't keep doing this," he said, but his voice lacked conviction, even as he dropped the washcloth and used his bare hands, soaping her ass cheeks.

She turned then, water streaming down her face, eyes locked on his. Her hand wrapped around his cock, now fully hard, veins standing out under her grip. She stroked once, slow and firm, thumbing the slit where pre-cum mixed with the water. With a smirk on her face, she said "look at you. Already hard for me."

Bradley groaned, his hands finding her hips, pulling her closer despite the voice in his head screaming about sin and fidelity to a dead wife. The shower was too small for space, their bodies sliding together, her breasts pressing against his chest, nipples hard and scraping his skin. She kissed him then, not tentative like before, but hungry, teeth nipping his lower lip as her tongue invaded his mouth. He tasted the mint from her toothbrush, mixed with the faint salt of travel sweat.

She lowered herself to her knees, the tile hard under her, water pounding her back. Her mouth was on him before he could protest—lips parting wide to take the head, tongue flattening against the underside as she sucked. No teasing this time; she went deep right away, throat relaxing to swallow half his length, her cheeks hollowing with the pull. Bradley's hand tangled in her wet hair, not guiding but holding on, hips bucking involuntarily as she bobbed. Saliva mixed with water, dripping down his balls, which she cupped and tugged gently, rolling them in her palm.

She pulled off with a gasp, strings of spit connecting her lips to his cock. Standing, she turned, bracing her hands on the shower wall, ass out, water carving paths down her crack. "Fuck me from behind Bradley. Right here, right now."

He didn't think. His hands gripped her hips, cock nudging her entrance, finding her soaked—not just from the shower, but her own arousal, pussy lips swollen and parting easily. He thrust in, one long slide until his hips met her ass, buried to the hilt. She was tighter than he remembered, walls gripping him like she was made for it, hot and pulsing. "Amy, I can' believe what you're doing to me," he growled, pulling back and slamming in again, the water making obscene slaps echo off the tiles.

Amy pushed back, meeting every thrust, her fingers working her clit in furious circles. "Harder, Bradley. Give it to me like you mean it. Pretend you're not fighting it anymore." Her voice broke on a moan as he angled deeper, the head of his cock hitting that spot inside her that made her knees buckle. He reached around, replacing her hand with his, fingers slick as he rubbed her clit—small, hard nub under his thumb, circling while he pounded her.

The steam thickened, their breaths ragged, mixing with the spray. Bradley's balls tightened, the pressure building too fast, but he didn't care. Her pussy clenched around him, fluttering, and she came first—body shaking, a sharp cry escaping as she squirted a little, juices mixing with the water running down her thighs. "Yes, fuck, right there—"

"Cum inside me Bradley," Amy said. "Don't you dare pull out." He followed seconds later, thrusting deep and holding, cum erupting in thick spurts, filling her up just like before. Pulse after pulse, until it leaked out around his cock, white mixing with clear water. They stayed like that, panting, until the water started to cool.

Amy straightened first, turning to face him, a sly smile on her lips despite the flush on her cheeks. She stepped out, grabbing a towel, leaving him to rinse off the evidence of their sin.

Bradley dried off in silence, the guilt crashing back as the high faded. They dressed—her in a loose robe, him pulling on boxers and a shirt— and moved to the bed, the city lights flickering through the curtains.

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Amy sat at home on the edge of the living room couch. She arrived a short time ago, suitcase still half-unpacked in the hall, but the memories clung like sweat after a long run. David was due back any minute from his shift at the warehouse, and the weight of their fractured marriage hung heavy.

She glanced at her phone, no messages from Bradley. What if she just left it all? Ditched David, chased after the older man who'd fucked her senseless in the shower, his cum dripping down her thighs as the water cooled. But Bradley was married to his ghosts, a widower who probably regretted every thrust by now. And David - with his secret browser tabs, the bisexual porn that had cracked open their bedroom talks. Was he even straight anymore? Or had she been the placeholder all along?

The front door clicked open, pulling her from the spiral. David shuffled in, keys jingling as he kicked off his boots. He looked worn, hair tousled from the drive, his warehouse polo stretched across his shoulders. "Hey," he said, voice low, avoiding her eyes as he dropped his bag by the door. "Hey yourself." Amy stood, smoothing her tank top, the one that hugged her curves without trying.

Dinner was simple—pasta she'd thrown together, steam rising from the bowls on the kitchen table. They ate in near silence at first, forks scraping plates. Finally, David set his fork down. "Amy, about Gary... it's over. For real this time. I told him I couldn't do it anymore. I want us back. You and me, like before."

She paused, twirling noodles around her fork, skepticism twisting in her gut. Like before? Before she found his porn history, before the awkward confessions in bed about wanting to watch another guy with her, before she asked if she could fuck someone else and he said yes, eyes lighting up. "Just like that? You end it with your side piece and expect me to forget the past month?"

David reached across the table, his hand hovering near hers. "It wasn't like that. Gary was... an experiment. But you're my wife. I miss you. Miss us." Amy pulled her hand back, the pasta turning to lead in her stomach. Bradley's face flashed again—his hesitant thrusts turning animal, the way he'd groaned her name. David noticed her distance, but he didn't push.

They cleared the dishes in quiet tandem, the clink of plates louder than words. Upstairs, she grabbed her pajamas and headed to the guest room. "I need time and space to think," she said at the door, not meeting his eyes. He nodded, defeated, retreating to their bedrooms alone. Separate rooms felt like a trial separation, and she wasn't sure she wanted to pass.

Morning light filtered through the guest room blinds, pulling her awake too early. David had already left for work, his truck rumbling out of the driveway hours ago. Amy had a flight to catch that afternoon—another international flight heading towards London.

She padded downstairs in her robe, coffee brewing as she settled at their shared computer in the den. It hummed to life, its screen flickering with the usual desktop clutter. She checked the browser history out of habit, the one that had blown open their secrets last time. Empty. Deleted clean, not a trace of whatever David had been up to.

Her pulse quickened—why wipe it now? Curiosity itched, and she dove into the file explorer, scanning recent downloads. A folder caught her eye, buried under innocuous work PDFs: "Misc_Pics." She clicked it open, heart thudding. Photos. Dozens of them, timestamped from as early as last week. The first was David, shirtless in their backyard, arms around a guy who looked barely out of college—lean, tousled blond hair, early twenties maybe, grinning like he'd won a prize. Gary? The next shot had them kissing, David's hand cupping the kid's jaw, tongues visible in the close-up. Amy's breath caught, a mix of anger and something hotter uncoiling low in her belly. She scrolled: David on his knees, the young guy's jeans unzipped, a hard dick outlined against white briefs. Then explicit—David's mouth wrapped around it, cheeks hollowed, the kid's hand in his hair. Their relationship "ended"? Bullshit. Amy walked away from the computer, her chest heaving. She was lied to again.

While serving passengers on the flight to Heathrow, Bradley's memory mingling with David's betrayal. During a quiet moment in the galley, her phone buzzed—a text from David: *Thinking about you. Call me when you land?* She deleted it, then pulled up her contacts, thumb hovering over Bradley's name. She texted *heading to LHR. Want to be with you again. When and where can we meet?* An hour later, Bradley texted *heading to FCO, then deadheading home for 5 days*. Amy replies *rearranging my schedule. Stay in Rome. Will be with you tomorrow. Text me which hotel we’ll be staying.*