Husband Turns Gay: Chapter 14

Abstract: The 14th of 16 chapters.
Amy divorces David, meets Bradley for a reunion, then they vacation in Saint-Tropez.
\\\\\

Bradley hunched over the scarred metal table in the crew room at Kloten Airport, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and recycled jet fuel that seeped in from the tarmac outside. His flight bag slumped against his chair, charts and manuals splayed out like a puzzle he wasn't in the mood to solve.

The clock on the wall ticked toward boarding to captain his next flight, but his mind was elsewhere—on Amy, the way her uniform hugged her curves during that layover in Tokyo, the heat of her mouth when she kissed him. He'd given her an ultimatum more than two months ago: leave David or lose him. No more living immorally and in sin as an adulterer.

Now, his phone buzzed on the table, screen lighting up with her name. He snatched it, thumbing open the message. First image: a crisp photo of a document, the title bold and final—"Settlement Agreement Between David Marks and Amy Marks." The second photo showed the last page—signatures scrawled in black ink, notarized, dated yesterday. Bradley's breath caught, a grin splitting his face wide enough to ache. Joy and relief punched through his chest, hot and electric, like slamming the throttle on a 747. She did it. They we're going to have a life together. It made him happy. Minutes went by. Then another buzz. Text from Amy: *I am now yours for the taking. Will you come and claim me?*

Instantly, he called her. The line rang twice before her voice came through, soft but steady, like she'd been waiting. "Hi Bradley." "Amy, Congratulations. You're free. I can't describe how happy I am for you-for us." A pause, then a small laugh from Amy, edged with relief. "It was brutal, but yeah. Signed it last week at the lawyer's. David will buy-out my half of the house. I'm not sure where I'll be living, but I'll get that figured out." Bradley said "Amy, continue to stay at my condo, there's no need to think about this now."

"I love you Amy," he blurted, the words tumbling out unfiltered, no captain's cool to hide behind. "I've wanted this—us, real and open—for so long. Brussels? My layover's in two days. Meet me there?" "Did you just say you love me? You've never said that to me before" she said, excitement threading her tone. "I'm leaving now for LHR. I'll rearrange my trip and meet you there. Let's make it special and stay at the Hotel Amigo, that place near the Grand Place we talked about." "Yes, I will" Bradley said. "In two days. Amy, I can't wait to be together again." Amy said "See you then Bradley. And-by the way, I love you too."

They hung up with promises and logistics, his mind racing ahead. He pocketed the phone, grabbed his bag, and headed for the gate, the pre-flight checks a blur. Brussels couldn't come fast enough.

Two days later, the Hotel Amigo's lobby wrapped Amy in its old-world hush, marble floors gleaming under chandeliers that dripped light like honey. She'd checked in early, nerves buzzing under her skin, the simple black dress she'd packed clinging to her hips and breasts in a way that screamed invitation. No uniform today—just her, raw and ready.

The elevator ride to the fifth floor felt eternal, her key card slick in her palm. Bradley's flight had landed an hour ago; texted from the cab. Any second now. The door clicked open to their suite, a sprawl of cream linens and wide windows overlooking the square below, where tourists milled like ants.

She dropped her bag, kicked off her heels, and paced to the balcony, heart hammering. Footsteps in the hall—his, she knew by the confident stride. The knock came sharp, and she yanked the door open. There he was, all six-foot-two of him, flight jacket slung over one shoulder, eyes dark with hunger. No words at first; he stepped in, door shutting behind him, and pulled her against his chest. His mouth crashed onto hers, tongue diving deep like he was starving. Amy moaned into it, hands fisting his shirt, the familiar taste of him—mint and man—flooding her senses. Guilt? None. David's confession echoed in her mind, a distant sting, but here, with Bradley's body pressing her to the wall, it dissolved. She was his now.

"Oh Amy, I've missed you so much," he growled against her neck, nipping the skin there as his hands roamed, bunching her dress up her thighs. She arched into him, nipples peaking against the fabric, pussy already damp and aching. "Show me," she whispered, fingers tugging at his belt. "Claim me, Bradley. All of me." He didn't need more. In one fluid move, he scooped her up, legs wrapping his waist as he carried her to the bed. The mattress bounced under them, and he stripped her dress off in seconds, leaving her in just lace panties that he eyed like prey. "Beautiful," he said, voice rough, shedding his own clothes—jacket, shirt, pants hitting the floor.

His cock sprang free, thick and hard, veins standing out, tip already glistening. Amy's mouth watered; she reached for it, stroking the length, feeling it throb in her grip. Bradley groaned, kneeling between her legs, but he took his time, hands sliding up her calves, knees, thighs, spreading her wide. "No rushing this," he murmured, hooking fingers in her panties and peeling them down, exposing her waxed and smooth pussy, lips swollen and slick. He leaned in, breath hot against her clit, and licked a slow stripe from her entrance to the hood, tasting her arousal.

Amy bucked, fingers tangling in his short hair. "Oh Bradley, yes my darling, you're so good at this." He ate her like a man possessed, tongue circling her clit with firm pressure, then dipping inside her folds, lapping at the wetness that leaked from her. No teasing flicks—direct, insistent strokes that had her thighs quivering. One hand pinned her hip, the other slid two fingers into her cunt, curling up to hit that spot that made her see stars. She rode his face, hips grinding, the wet sounds of his mouth on her filling the room. "Bradley, don't stop my love." Her orgasm built fast, coiling tight in her belly, and when it hit, she shattered—pussy clenching around his fingers, juices coating his chin as she cried out, back arching off the bed.

He pulled back, lips shiny with her, and climbed over her, kissing her deep so she tasted herself on him. "I love making love to you," he said, positioning his cock at her entrance, rubbing the head through her slickness. "Ready for me?" "Yes Bradley, inside me honey," she moaned, nails digging into his shoulders. He thrust in, slow at first, stretching her around his girth, inch by inch until he bottomed out, balls against her ass. They both groaned, the fullness perfect, her walls fluttering around him.

He started moving, deep rolls of his hips that ground his pubic bone against her clit, building her up again. No frantic pounding yet—just deliberate, heartfelt strokes, his eyes locked on hers, whispering how much he loved her, how he'd waited for this. Amy wrapped her legs around him, meeting each thrust, her breasts bouncing with the rhythm. Sweat slicked their skin, the slap of flesh echoing as he picked up speed, his cock sliding in and out, coated in her cream. "Harder," she gasped, and he obliged, slamming deeper, one hand tweaking her nipple, rolling it until she whimpered. The bed creaked under them, headboard tapping the wall, but neither cared.

She remembered their stolen nights—the quick fucks in airport hotels, his mouth on her breasts while she rode him—but this was different. Open, passionate, no shadows. Suddenly, an orgasm ripping through her like lightning, pussy spasming around him, squirting a little against his hand as she shook. "Bradley! oh, yes!" He followed right after, hips jerking erratic, burying deep as he came—hot spurts filling her, leaking out around his shaft as he pumped every drop. They collapsed together, his weight comforting, dick softening inside her. They lay there, tangled and spent, his arms around her waist. After a while, he kissed her shoulder. "I love you, Amy. For real. No more ultimatums, no more hiding." She turned in his arms, tracing his jaw. "I love you too. This—us—it's what I want." Bradley grinned. "Let's vacation in Saint-Tropez. How about in two weeks? The two of us, sun, sand, and surf, with non-stop lovemaking."

\\\\

The taxi from Nice Airport wound through sun-baked hills dotted with olive groves, the Mediterranean air blasting through the open windows like a salty promise. Amy leaned against Bradley's shoulder, her fingers laced with his. Two weeks had blurred by in a haze of rearranged schedules and stolen calls, but now, after the divorce papers and their first real weekend together, they were diving headfirst into this—five uninterrupted days at Hotel La Ponche in Saint-Tropez. No flights, no layovers, just them. Amy's pulse thrummed with a mix of excitement and nerves; this was the longest they'd ever been glued together, no quick goodbyes at dawn.

They arrived mid-afternoon, the resort's whitewashed walls and terracotta roofs spilling onto a private cove where waves lapped at imported sand. Check-in was a blur of French accents and chilled rosé handed over with a wink. Their suite overlooked the sea, a sprawl of white linens, exposed beams, and a balcony strung with bougainvillea that dropped petals like confetti. Amy stripped down immediately, trading her travel clothes for a barely-there bikini—emerald green strings that tied at her hips and neck, leaving her ass cheeks peeking out and her breasts mostly bare. "Swim first?" she asked, grabbing sunscreen and tossing the bottle to Bradley.

He caught it one-handed, eyes raking over her body as he peeled off his shirt, revealing the lean muscle from years of cockpit tension and gym sessions. "Lead the way," he said, voice low. They hit the water via a rickety wooden ladder off the rocks, the sea cool against the day's building heat. Amy dove in, surfacing with a gasp, her nipples hardening instantly under the thin fabric. Bradley followed, pulling her against him in the shallows, his swim trunks doing nothing to hide the semi-hard bulge pressing into her thigh. They floated like that for what felt like hours—kissing with salt on their lips, hands wandering under the water, fingers teasing the edges of suits without quite crossing into public territory. A few other guests lounged on nearby towels, but the cove's curve gave them privacy, the sun turning their skin golden.

By late afternoon, they dragged themselves out, dripping and laughing, to collapse on chaises by the infinity pool. Bradley slathered lotion on her back, his palms sliding slow and firm over her shoulders, down the dip of her spine, thumbs digging into the dimples above her ass. She arched into it, pussy tingling from the pressure. "You're trouble," she murmured, turning to return the favor, her hands mapping his chest, tracing the V of his hips until he groaned and caught her wrist. "Save it for tonight. Dinner reservations at La Vague d'Or."

The evening unfolded like a dream scripted for indulgence. They dressed up—Amy in a slinky red dress that plunged low between her breasts, no bra, the fabric whispering against her skin with every step; Bradley in linen pants and a crisp shirt that hugged his broad shoulders. La Vague d'Or was a stone's throw from the hotel, its terrace lit by lanterns that flickered like fireflies over plates of seared foie gras, lobster bisque, and langoustine glistening with herb butter. They shared bites, knees brushing under the table, the wine flowing crisp and chilled. Conversation skipped from flight horror stories to Amy's post-divorce plans—selling her half of the old house, maybe crashing at Bradley's longer-term. No mention of David, not tonight; that chapter was closed, the memories of their fractured marriage—his hidden porn stash, the awkward talks about threesomes she'd initiated in a last-ditch effort to spark something—fading like old ink.

Back in the suite after dessert, the air hummed with anticipation. The balcony doors stood open, letting in the distant crash of waves and the scent of jasmine. Bradley kicked off his shoes first, pulling Amy into him by the waist, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that started soft but turned hungry fast. She tasted the lingering sweetness of crème brûlée on his tongue, her hands fumbling with his shirt buttons while he unzipped her dress. It pooled at her feet, leaving her naked except for the thin lace thong she'd worn hoping for this. "Wow!, you're stunning," he muttered, stepping back to look, his gaze lingering on her full breasts, the way her nipples pebbled in the breeze, down to the dark patch visible through the lace.

Amy's breath hitched, heat pooling between her legs as she watched him strip—shirt gone, pants shoved down, his cock springing free, already thick and curving up toward his stomach, the head flushed and leaking a bead of pre-cum. She dropped to her knees on the plush rug, not breaking eye contact, and wrapped her hand around the base, stroking slow while her tongue flicked out to lap at the tip. Salty, musky, all him. Bradley's fingers threaded into her hair, not pushing, just holding as she took him deeper, lips stretching around his girth. She sucked with steady pressure, hollowing her cheeks, her free hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently. He groaned, hips twitching forward, but she set the pace—bobbing her head, letting spit slick the shaft, her throat relaxing to take more until her nose brushed his pubes.

"Oh, Amy," he rasped, watching her through half-lidded eyes. She pulled off with a pop, strings of saliva connecting her lips to his dick, and stood, pushing him toward the bed. He sat on the edge, and she straddled him, grinding her soaked thong against his length, the friction making her clit throb.

They shifted, Bradley flipping her onto her back, peeling the thong down her thighs and tossing it aside. Her pussy was freshy waxed, nice and smooth, lips puffy and glistening, clit peeking out swollen and ready. He spread her legs wide, hooking them over his shoulders, and dove in without preamble. His tongue was relentless—flat laps over her folds, then pointed flicks on her clit that had her hips bucking. "Bradley, oh my love, right there," she moaned, fingers twisting the sheets. He sucked her clit between his lips, humming vibrations through her, while two fingers plunged into her cunt, scissoring to stretch her, curling against her G-spot. She was dripping, the wet sounds obscene as he finger-fucked her, his free hand pinning one thigh to keep her open.

Amy came hard, thighs clamping around his head, pussy clenching and pulsing as a gush of wetness coated his hand. He didn't stop, licking her through it until she whimpered oversensitive, then crawled up, cock nudging her entrance. "Please darling, I want you inside me," she panted, wrapping her legs around his waist. He thrust in one smooth motion, filling her completely, the stretch burning sweet. They moved together, her nails raking his back, his hips snapping forward in deep, grinding strokes that hit every nerve. Sweat slicked their skin, the bedframe thumping rhythmically against the wall.

He pulled out suddenly, flipping her onto her stomach, ass up. "This okay?" he asked, voice rough, and she nodded, pushing back toward him. He entered her from behind, one hand fisting the sheets by her head, the other sliding under to rub her clit. The angle let him go deeper, his balls slapping her with each thrust, her breasts swaying heavy beneath her. "Harder," she begged, and he obliged, pounding into her, the room filling with the slap of flesh and her broken moans. She screamed "I'm coming!" She shattered again, walls fluttering around his cock, squirting a little onto the sheets.

Bradley followed, groaning her name as he buried deep, cock twitching as he unloaded—thick ropes of cum flooding her pussy, some leaking out around him when he finally pulled free. They collapsed in a heap, his body draped over hers, both breathing ragged. He kissed the back of her neck, rolling them so she lay on his chest, his softening dick still nestled against her thigh.

They dozed like that, the sea's rhythm lulling them, until Amy stirred, tracing lazy circles on his skin. The vulnerability hit her then, post-orgasm clarity sharpening the questions she'd buried. "Bradley," she whispered, propping up on an elbow to meet his eyes. "Why didn't you and Ellen ever have kids? You seem like you'd be a great dad."

He sighed, pulling her closer, his hand stroking her hair. The name didn't sting anymore—Ellen was a ghost, faded. "We wanted them. Always did. But she had endometriosis, bad. It wrecked her insides; doctors said pregnancy wasn't happening without major surgery, and even then, risks were high." He paused, staring at the ceiling. "We talked options—IVF, adoption. But careers got in the way. I was climbing the ranks at the airline, she was fully committed to her marketing firm. Layovers, deadlines, exhaustion. By the time we slowed down, it was too late. We were settled, older, and... content without, I guess. Regret it sometimes, but life's not a redo."

The next days melted into a rhythm of sun-soaked bliss. Mornings started with lovemaking on the balcony, Amy riding him reverse cowgirl while he gripped her hips, watching her ass bounce as she ground down, his cum dripping down her thighs when they finished. Afternoons were for the beach—nude sunbathing in secluded spots, her body oiled and gleaming, his hands wandering to pinch her nipples or slip fingers into her until she came with a muffled cry against his shoulder. They swam naked too, bodies tangling underwater, her legs wrapped around him as he fingered her to the edge, only pulling away when laughter turned to gasps.