Husband Turns Gay: Chapter 11

Abstract: The 11th of 16 chapters.
Amy meets Bradley in Rome. Amy tells Bradley she's in love with him.
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Amy stepped through the revolving doors of the Hotel Hassler Roma, the lobby's marble floor cool under her heels, carrying the faint scent of fresh espresso from a nearby cart. Jet lag tugged at her edges, but the thrill of pursuit sharpened everything else. She'd rearranged her schedule on a whim, swapping shifts and begging favors from colleagues, all to chase him—Bradley, the man who'd cracked her open in that Tokyo shower. David was a ghost now, his lies about Gary and those backyard photos festering like an open sore. Fuck him and his lies; she needed something real, something that didn't reek of betrayal.

Bradley was already there, standing near a cluster of leather armchairs, his broad shoulders tense under a crisp button-down. He spotted her first, eyes widening behind his glasses, and crossed the space in quick strides. No hesitation this time. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her into a hug that pressed her breasts against his chest, his cologne mixing with the hotel's polished air. "Amy," he murmured, voice rough, before his lips found hers. The kiss started soft, a brush of mouths, but deepened fast—his tongue sliding in, tasting of mint gum and the nervousness she could feel in his grip. She melted into it, hands fisting his shirt, ignoring the discreet cough from a passing concierge.

They broke apart, breathless, foreheads touching. "I'm so glad you changed your plans for me," she said, her thumb tracing his jaw. "I've been thinking of you and wanted to be with you." he replied, as he laced his fingers through hers.

They moved to the rooftop terrace for lunch, the Eternal City sprawling below in a haze of terracotta roofs and distant traffic hum. The table was small, white linen under a striped umbrella, plates of prosciutto and burrata arriving with chilled prosecco.

Amy kicked off her shoes under the table, foot sliding up his calf, while he held her hand across the plates, thumb stroking her knuckles. Between bites, they'd lean in for more kisses—quick ones at first, then lingering, his free hand cupping her neck as her lips parted for him. Waiters averted their eyes, but Amy didn't care; let them see. She was done hiding, done pretending with David. Here, with Bradley's eyes devouring her, she felt alive, desired in a way that made her thighs clench.

"You taste like adventure," he whispered during one kiss, his breath warm against her ear. She laughed, low and throaty, popping a grape into his mouth with her fingers, watching him suck the juice from her skin.

By the time they finished, the sun had shifted, casting long shadows over the ruins in the distance. Back in the lobby, Amy pressed against him again, her hand slipping to the small of his back, fingers dipping just under his belt. "Let's go to the room," she said, not a question. He nodded, swiping the keycard with a hand that shook only slightly now.

The room was high up, overlooking the Spanish Steps, with a king bed draped in starched white sheets and a balcony door cracked open to let in the murmur of street vendors below. Bradley excused himself to the bathroom. Amy waited a beat, then stripped. Her blouse hit the floor first, followed by her skirt, bra, and panties—simple black lace she'd chosen that morning, already damp from their lunch foreplay. Naked, she sat on the edge of the bed, legs closed, the cool air raising goosebumps on her skin. Her pussy felt exposed even like this, smooth from the waxing she'd done impulsively in London, the layover too short for second thoughts.

The bathroom door creaked open, and Bradley emerged. He froze mid-step, eyes locking on her—bare breasts, nipples tightening under his gaze, the curve of her thighs pressed together. Amy met his stare with a sinister, seductive look, the kind that promised ruin and reward. She crooked a finger, drawing him closer, slow and deliberate. "Bradley," she said, voice husky, "get down on your knees in front of me."

He stood there, frozen, the room's quiet amplified the distant honk of a scooter outside. Amy's patience thinned, her expression hardening. "Bradley, on your knees - now!" The command snapped like a whip, and he dropped, knees hitting the carpet with a thud, his face inches from her knees. Close enough she could feel his breath, warm and uneven.

She leaned back on her hands, studying him—the lines etched around his eyes from years of restraint, the way his hands clenched at his sides. "Bradley, during all of our lovemaking, you never went down on me." Her words hung there, heavy with the truth of it. Tokyo had been raw, urgent fucking—his cock in her, filling her—but never this intimacy, never his mouth on her most private skin. He swallowed, gaze flicking up to her face, then down as she parted her legs wide, knees falling open to expose everything.

Her pussy lips were bare, smooth as silk, the inner folds already glistening with arousal. She reached down, fingers tracing her slit, parting herself for him—pink and swollen, clit peeking out like a secret. A bead of wetness slicked her fingertip, and she brought it to her lips, tasting herself with a hum. "I had it waxed, nice and smooth for you. Bradley, come and worship my pussy."

He hesitated, breath catching, his strict Christian upbringing slamming back like a wall. Sex was for making babies, not this—tongues and pleasure, sins of the flesh his late wife had never demanded. His mouth had been for prayers, not devouring a woman like this. But Amy saw the war in his eyes, the hunger cracking through. She leaned forward, hand sliding into his damp hair, fingers curling at the nape of his neck. With steady pressure, she guided him between her legs, pulling his face to her core until his nose brushed her smooth mound, his lips grazing her clit.

"Open your mouth," she instructed, voice firm but laced with need. He did, tentative, lips parting against her wetness. The first touch of his tongue was clumsy—a flat lick along her slit, tasting her salt and musk. Amy shivered, hips tilting forward to give him more. "Like that, but slower. Explore me." Bradley's hands found her thighs, gripping the soft flesh as he leaned in deeper, tongue tracing her folds, lapping at the slickness gathering there. He wasn't skilled, not like the college boys she'd blown in her twenties, but the hesitation made it hotter—his reluctance melting into curiosity, then hunger. He sucked gently on her outer lips, pulling one between his teeth with a soft nibble, then delved inside, tongue probing her entrance, fucking in shallow thrusts.

"Fuck, yes," Amy groaned, her free hand cupping her breast, pinching the nipple hard. She ground against his face, smearing her juices across his cheeks and chin, the stubble scraping her inner thighs in a delicious burn. Bradley hummed, the vibration buzzing through her clit, and she rewarded him by spreading wider, one foot hooking over his shoulder to open herself fully. His tongue found her clit then, circling it awkwardly at first, but she guided him— "Flick it, Bradley, light and fast" —and he obeyed, the tip of his tongue batting the sensitive nub until her thighs trembled.

Memories flickered: David's confessions in their bed, his hesitant admission about wanting to watch her with another man, the bisexual porn she'd uncovered on their shared computer. It had cracked their marriage open, but here, with Bradley's mouth devouring her like a man starved, it felt like revenge, like reclaiming her body. She wasn't some placeholder for David's experiments; she was the one in control now.

Bradley's confidence grew, hands sliding up to part her ass cheeks, thumbs framing her pussy as his tongue plunged deeper. He sucked her clit into his mouth, rolling it gently, while one finger teased her entrance, dipping in knuckle-deep. Amy's breath hitched, back arching off the bed. "Add another finger. Curl them up." He did, two thick digits stretching her, hooking against that spongy spot inside that made her gasp. The wet sounds filled the room—his slurping, her moans, the squelch of his fingers pumping in and out, coated in her arousal. She was dripping now, juices running down his hand, pooling on the carpet below.

"Don't stop," she panted, grinding harder, her hand tightening in his hair to hold him in place. Bradley's cock strained against his pants, forgotten, pre-cum probably soaking the fabric. He moaned into her pussy, the sound muffled, sending fresh sparks up her spine. She came like that—sudden and sharp, thighs clamping around his head, pussy clenching on his fingers as waves of pleasure ripped through her. "Fuck, Bradley—yes, eat my cum." He didn't pull away, lapping through it, tongue soothing her pulsing clit until she shuddered to a stop, oversensitive and boneless.

Amy released his hair, chest heaving, but she wasn't done. "Stand up," she said, voice wrecked. She undid and removed his shirt, trousers, and boxers, dropping to reveal his cock—thick and veined, head flushed purple, a string of pre-cum dangling from the slit. She eyed it hungrily, then pushed him back onto the bed, straddling his hips in one fluid motion. "My turn to ride you." No preamble; she gripped his shaft, lining it up with her still-throbbing pussy, and sank down. Inch by inch, he filled her, stretching her walls until she bottomed out, his balls pressed against her ass. Bradley groaned, hands flying to her hips, but she set the pace—slow rolls at first, grinding her clit against his pubic bone, then faster, bouncing with sharp slaps of skin.

He thrust up to meet her, the bed creaking under them, his face still shiny with her juices. "Amy, I can't—" She cut him off with a kiss, tasting herself on his tongue, salty and sharp. Her breasts bounced with each drop, nipples grazing his chest hair, and she reached back to fondle his balls, rolling them as she clenched around his cock. The room smelled of sex now, sweat and arousal thick in the air, the balcony breeze doing nothing to cool it.

She flipped them suddenly, landing on her back with him above, legs wrapping his waist. "Pound me Bradley. Hard." Bradley braced on his forearms, hips snapping forward, cock slamming deep with each thrust. Her pussy gripped him like a vice, milking every ridge, and she raked nails down his back, leaving red trails. He buried his face in her neck, grunting with effort, the head of his dick battering her cervix in a way that bordered on pain but tipped into ecstasy. "Gonna cum," he warned, voice strained.

"Inside me Bradley," she demanded, echoing Tokyo, heels digging into his ass to pull him deeper. He shattered first, cock swelling as he erupted—hot spurts flooding her, pulse after pulse until it leaked out around him, creamy white against her smooth skin. The sensation pushed her over again, pussy fluttering, a gush of her own wetness mixing with his cum, soaking the sheets.

They collapsed, tangled and slick, breaths syncing as the high ebbed. Amy traced lazy circles on his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart. Bradley lifted his head, eyes soft but shadowed. "This... it's changing me."

"Good," she whispered, kissing his jaw. "Maybe it's time."

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Amy woke to the soft patter of rain against the balcony door, the kind of early morning drizzle that turned Rome's cobblestones slick and the air heavy with the scent of wet stone and distant bakeries. It was their last full day here, and she wasn't about to let the weather dictate the mood. Bradley stirred beside her, his body warm and solid, sheets tangled around their legs from the night before. She traced a finger down his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, and slipped out of bed quietly, pulling on a loose sundress that barely skimmed her thighs—no underwear, just the fabric brushing her skin like a secret.

By the time he emerged from the bathroom, towel slung low on his hips, she'd ordered room service: fresh cornetti stuffed with crema pasticcera and two steaming cappuccinos. They ate on the balcony, rain misting the railing, her bare foot hooked around his ankle under the small table. "We've got a full day ahead," she said, licking cream from her thumb, watching his eyes follow the motion. "Cafes, ruins, the works. But tonight... that's ours."

He nodded, pulling her onto his lap for a kiss that tasted like coffee and sugar, his hands sliding up her dress to cup her ass. She ground against him once, feeling the towel tent, before standing with a grin. "Save it for later."

They started in Trastevere, weaving through narrow alleys where laundry hung like colorful flags from wrought-iron balconies. The rain had eased to a fine mist, leaving puddles that reflected the ochre walls. At a corner cafe, they claimed a table under a red awning, ordering espresso and sfogliatelle—flaky pastries that crumbled under her fork. Amy fed him a bite, her fingers lingering on his lips, and he caught her wrist, sucking the powdered sugar from her skin with a low hum. Tourists milled around, snapping photos of ivy-covered doorways, but Amy's focus was on the way his knee pressed against hers, a steady pressure that promised more.

From there, they hopped a cab to the Vatican, the line for the Sistine Chapel snaking through security like a human river. Bradley's hand stayed at the small of her back, guiding her through the crowds, his thumb circling in small, possessive strokes. Inside, amid the frescoes and echoing whispers, she leaned into him, whispering, "Imagine Michelangelo painting naked bodies up there— all that flesh, frozen in time." He chuckled, his breath warm on her ear, and squeezed her hip. The chapel's cool air did nothing to temper the heat building between them; by the time they emerged into St. Peter's Square, her nipples were hard against the thin dress, and she caught him glancing down, adjusting his stance.

Lunch was a quick panini from a street vendor near the Colosseum—porchetta and arugula on crusty bread, eaten standing amid the ancient arches. The sun had broken through, drying the stones and casting sharp shadows over the ruins. They wandered the perimeter, her arm looped through his, fingers interlacing as she pointed out the faded carvings. "Gladiators fucking in the shadows after battles," she murmured, half-joking, but his grip tightened, eyes darkening. He pulled her into a quieter alcove, away from the tour groups, and kissed her there—hard, his tongue pushing past her lips, one hand fisting the back of her dress to press her against the rough wall. She moaned into his mouth, her hand slipping down to palm his cock through his trousers, feeling it twitch and harden. A group of schoolkids rounded the corner, and they broke apart laughing, breathless, her lips swollen and cheeks flushed.

Back in the city as dusk fell, they found a romantic spot in the Borghese Gardens—an outdoor dinner under string lights, at a long communal table laden with antipasti. Waiters poured Chianti, and plates arrived piled with grilled octopus, burrata drizzled in olive oil, and handmade tagliatelle slick with ragù. Amy's foot found his crotch under the table again, toes rubbing his bulge through the fabric, making him choke on a sip of wine. They talked in low voices—about the day's discoveries, the way the ruins felt like echoes of their own unraveling lives—but her hand on his thigh kept the undercurrent electric. By dessert—tiramisù so rich it coated her tongue—he was gripping the table edge, eyes locked on her mouth as she licked the spoon clean.

The cab ride back to the hotel was torture; she straddled his lap in the backseat, dress hiked up, grinding her bare pussy against the seam of his trousers while the driver pretended not to notice in the rearview. His hands roamed her thighs, fingers dipping to tease her wetness, but she swatted them away. "Wait."

In the room, the door barely clicked shut before she shoved him against it, yanking his shirt over his head. His chest was broad, dusted with hair that she raked her nails through, drawing a hiss from him. She stripped her dress off in one motion, standing naked before him—breasts heavy, nipples peaked, her pussy already slick from the day's teasing.

Bradley's eyes raked over her, and he dropped to his knees without prompting this time, hands spreading her thighs as he buried his face between them. His tongue was surer now, lapping at her folds with flat, broad strokes that made her knees buckle. "Oh Bradley," she gasped, fingers tangling in his hair, guiding him to her clit. He sucked it between his lips, flicking the tip with quick darts, while two fingers plunged inside her, curling against her walls. She rode his face, hips rolling, the wet sounds of his mouth on her pussy filling the room—slurps and moans mixing with her building whimpers.

He stood, shedding his trousers, his cock springing free—thick, veined, the head leaking pre-cum. Amy pushed him toward the bed, and shoved him onto his back. She climbed over him, facing away—reverse cowgirl, her favorite for the view it gave. Gripping his shaft, she sank down, her pussy swallowing him inch by inch until her ass rested on his balls.

He filled her completely, the stretch burning sweet, and she started riding—slow at first, lifting until just the head was inside, then dropping hard, the slap of her ass against his thighs echoing. His hands gripped her hips, thumbs digging into the flesh, but she controlled the pace, grinding her clit against him on each downstroke.

She sped up, bouncing faster, her breasts jiggling, one hand reaching back to fondle his sack, rolling the heavy orbs. Bradley thrust up, meeting her, his groans turning guttural. "Amy—I'm close." She didn't stop, slamming down harder, the pressure pushing her over. Her orgasm hit like a wave, pussy spasming around him, a gush of wetness soaking his groin as she cried out. He followed seconds later, cock pulsing, flooding her with hot cum—spurt after thick spurt, some leaking out to trickle down his shaft.

They lay there after, bodies slick and spent, the room reeking of sex and rain. Amy curled against him, head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow. In the quiet, with the city lights flickering through the curtains, she traced patterns on his skin. "Bradley," she said softly, "I've fallen in love with you. I dream about you and me-sharing our life together."

He shifted, rolling onto his back, head tilting toward the ceiling, eyes closing as if in prayer. The silence stretched, heavy, and Amy felt the shift in him—the way his body tensed beneath her touch. She propped up on an elbow, kissing his cheek, his jaw, sensing the grief etched in the lines of his face.

"Amy, I have developed very strong feelings for you. But I'm having an affair with a married woman. For me, this is morally wrong and spiritually sinful. I'm having a very difficult time dealing with this." They held each other, with kisses and tenderness, before falling asleep, locked in each other’s arms.