Husband Turns Gay: Chapter 9

Abstract: The 9th of 16 chapters.
After Amy brazenly enters Bradley's hotel room, then his bed, she makes love to him.
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Bradley stirred in the heavy hush of the hotel room, the kind of quiet that amplifies every creak of the building settling overnight. His body felt pinned under a warm weight, not heavy but insistent, like an uninvited guest who'd overstayed.

An arm draped across his torso, fingers splayed possessively over his ribs. He blinked awake, the digital clock on the nightstand glowing 3:17 a.m., its red numerals casting faint shadows on the walls. The air smelled of hotel shampoo and something sweeter, like the rum Amy had been nursing earlier.

A hand slipped inside the gap of his bathrobe, cool at first against his skin, then warming as it traced the sparse hair on his chest. Circles, slow and deliberate, thumb brushing a nipple that tightened under the touch. Bradley's eyes snapped open fully.

He turned his head, heart thudding, and there she was—Amy, curled against him, her face inches from his, eyes half-lidded in the low light. But she wasn't in her pajamas anymore. The covers had slipped low, revealing her bare shoulder, the curve of her breast pressing into his side. Naked. Completely, unapologetically naked, her skin flushed and smooth against the terrycloth of his robe.

"Amy, what the are you doing?" His voice came out rough, a whisper laced with alarm. "This isn't... we can't—" She propped herself up on one elbow, her other hand lifting to press a finger against his lips, silencing him mid-sentence. The pad of her finger was soft, tasting faintly of salt from her earlier tears. She didn't say a word, just held his gaze, her brown eyes steady and searching, like she was daring him to pull away.

Then her hand moved to his chin, gentle but firm, tilting his face toward hers. Her lips met his—soft at first, tentative, then parting to deepen the kiss. Her tongue flicked against his, warm and insistent, carrying the faint bitterness of rum. Bradley's mind reeled, a storm of guilt crashing against the heat building in his gut. This was Amy, his colleague, twenty-five years his junior, married. He was a widower clinging to his faith like a life raft, not some hotel-room philanderer.

But she didn't stop. Her hand trailed back down his chest, fingers hooking into the belt of his robe. With a quick tug, she loosened the knot, parting the fabric like unwrapping a secret. Cool air hit his skin as the robe fell open, exposing his chest, his stomach, and lower—his cock, already stirring traitorously against his thigh, thickening under her proximity. He was sixty, fit from years of pounding pavement, but this? This was a line he hadn't crossed since his wife, and even then, not like this.

"Bradley," she murmured against his mouth, her breath hot. "Please. Just... let me." He shook his head, even as his body betrayed him, hips shifting involuntarily. "Amy, stop. This is wrong. You're married. I'm a man of Christian faith." His voice cracked, the words feeble against the ache building in his groin. He reached for her wrist, intending to push her hand away, but she was already sliding lower, her body a warm slide against his. She ignored the protest, her lips trailing kisses down his jaw, his neck, nipping at the skin above his collarbone.

Her hand wrapped around his cock, stroking once, twice, firm and sure, coaxing it to full hardness. It throbbed in her grip, the head slicking with a bead of pre-cum that she smeared with her thumb. Bradley groaned, low and unwilling, his resolve fraying like old rope. "Amy, please, no—."

Her mouth followed her hand. She shifted down the bed, knees bracketing his thighs, and took him in—lips parting around the head, tongue swirling flat against the underside. Wet heat enveloped him, inch by inch, until her nose brushed his pubic bone. She hummed, the vibration shooting straight to his balls, fingers clenching the sheets. "This is so wrong," he muttered, the word foreign on his tongue, pulled from some buried place.

She bobbed slowly at first, sucking with just enough pressure to make his hips buck, her hand twisting at the base to match the rhythm. Saliva slicked him, dripping down to his sack, which she cupped gently, rolling the balls in her palm. He protested again, quieter now, the words dissolving into a hiss as she hollowed her cheeks and took him deeper. "We shouldn't... your husband... my vows..." But his hand found her hair anyway, not pushing her away but threading through the strands, holding on as she worked him.

Her free hand roamed his body, nails scraping lightly over his nipples, down to his thighs, spreading them wider. She popped off for a breath, lips shiny, and looked up at him with those eyes—vulnerable yet hungry. "I need this, Bradley. I need to feel something real tonight." Before he could muster another objection, she climbed back up, straddling his hips.

Her pussy hovered over him, already wet—he could feel the heat radiating, see the glisten of her arousal as she positioned herself. She was shaved smooth, lips puffy and pink, clit peeking out like an invitation. "I'm going to make love to you Bradley," she said, voice husky, guiding his cock to her entrance. The head nudged her folds, slipping easily through the wetness.

"Amy, wait—" He grabbed her hips, trying to lift her off, but she sank down instead, impaling herself in one smooth motion. Her pussy clenched around him, hot and tight, walls fluttering as she adjusted to his girth. He was thick, veined from age and use, and she gasped, rocking forward to take him fully. "Oh God," she moaned, hands on his chest for leverage. It was exquisite torture—her body gripping him like a vice, slick friction as she lifted and dropped, setting a rhythm that had the headboard tapping the wall.

Bradley's hands stayed on her hips, fingers digging into soft flesh, torn between pulling her closer and shoving her away. "This is adultery," he whispered, voice strained, even as his cock pulsed inside her. "We can't... I can't come in you." She leaned down, breasts brushing his chest, nipples hard points against his skin. Her hips ground in circles now, clit rubbing against his pubic bone, chasing her own pleasure. "Yes, you can," she breathed, kissing him again, sloppy and deep. "Come inside me, Bradley. Fill me up. I want it." The words undid him.

He thrust up despite himself, meeting her downward strokes, the slap of skin on skin filling the room. Her pussy was soaked, juices coating his balls, dripping onto the sheets. She rode him harder, one hand slipping between them to circle her clit, breaths coming in pants. "Fuck, you feel so good," she gasped. "So big... stretching me." He lost the battle then, the guilt twisting with the building pressure in his core.

His balls tightened, cock swelling inside her as orgasm barreled toward him. "Amy—stop!, I'm—" He tried to pull her off one last time, hands pushing at her thighs, but she locked her legs around him, slamming down fully. "Come inside me Bradley." Her own climax hit first—pussy spasming around him, milking his length as she cried out, body shuddering. The sensation tipped him over. He came explosively, hips jerking as ropes of cum flooded her, hot and thick, painting her walls. Pulse after pulse, until he was spent, cock twitching in the aftermath.

She collapsed onto him, both breathing ragged, her head on his shoulder. His arms wrapped around her instinctively, holding her close even as his mind fractured. Pleasure lingered, a warm haze in his limbs, but beneath it, a chasm of regret yawned wide. Adultery. With Amy, a married woman half his age, in a bed that wasn't his. His faith, his late wife's memory—they crashed against the afterglow like waves on rock. He stared at the ceiling again, tears pricking his eyes, the weight of what they'd done settling heavier than her body on his.

The alarm clock chimed and Bradley found himself in bed – alone. Amy must have somehow slipped away after their lovemaking. He laid in bed for several minutes, trying desperately to process and rationalize all that happened. The pleasure Amy had given him had turned into a tremendous amount of guilt. His ultra-conversative Christian faith and values had been tarnished by an adulterous act. He rose to shower, dress, pack, and leave for the next leg of his trip.