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This story is strictly fictional and contains male-on-male (gay 🏳🌈 ) sexual content, both implied and explicit. 🔞 Reader discretion is advised. The names, ages, circumstances, parties, and locations mentioned in this narrative are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual individuals is purely coincidental. This story is a product of the author’s imagination. The author does not endorse any products or entities mentioned herein.
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A gay summer Holiday – Chapter 10
• When Alpha’s collide outside, sparks fly.
That early Tuesday morning, Chris met Jessie and Jelmer at the gym. Between the grueling labor at the campsite and these relentless morning sports school routines, Chris had physically transformed. He was a bronzed Dutch hunk, filling out his gym shorts with a thickness that turned heads. These four weeks had done more than build muscle; they’d forged a butch, self-assured attitude that finally matched the sleek leather he loved to wear.
He thought back to his four years at technical school — a time when he was the perpetual oddball. The budding engineer hadn’t fit in with the mouthy brickies or the scruffy woodworkers. He’d spent his breaks observing their hierarchy like a blueprint. Chris watched the moped-riding mechanics in their burly leather, looking dangerous and untouchable, and the sophisticated electro-techs who thought they were better than everyone else. Chris had been none of them. He was the manager, the organizer, the observer who took every extra class just to prove he could master their worlds too.
The ‘faggot’ title had followed him around, a stinging slur used by classmates and weaponized by his own siblings to make his life a living hell. He’d hated it then, but now, as he felt the power in his core and the weight of his reputation growing, he realized they’d been right about one thing: he was different. But different felt good. Not that it bothered him in the slightest.
Chris had become as rough and tough, and sophisticated as his schoolmates. And then some. Fuck their social conventions!
As he looked in the gym’s floor-to-ceiling mirrors, he liked what he had become. An Alpha-male in his own right. A worldly man, who liked the company of his own kind.
That first fateful encounter with the burly biker on the ferry had ripped the scales from his eyes, revealing a world of grit and heat he was born to lead.
Chris snapped out of his reflections when his phone buzzed; it was Wessel. He put it on speaker so his second cousins could hear.
“Soan, can you join me on Wednesday evening at the beach club? I want to round out the music festival and jam with you on stage again, Chris.”
“Hey, Wessel. That guitar I borrowed came in handy on the ferry last weekend,” Chris said, his voice ringing with pride. “… I played a few sets on board and got paid for my work. I even cleared a check for a thousand euros for the Islander Youth Fund from an older local couple.”
“That’s Great news, lad. The word has indeed gotten out!” Wessel sounded genuinely impressed. “I’ve been buried in pledges myself. We’ll need to talk about the logistics later — I’m setting up a meeting with the Mayor. But I hope to see you and the boys on Wednesday evening. Speak soon, buddy.”
“Cool. See you on stage. I’ll rustle up a few collection boxes. Bye, sir.”
“Sounds like I’ve got another job tomorrow, guys. Better get some guitar practice in,” Chris joked to the brothers, his eyes flashing with a competitive glint. Jessie stared at the paper in Chris’s hand.
“Wait, did you really clear a thousand euros this weekend?” Chris flicked his bulging wallet against Jessie’s chest with a smirk.
“Fucking hell, man,” Jelmer muttered, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the check. What Jelmer lacked in linguistic flair, he made up for with a cold, sharp talent for numbers. “… There must be 2500 euros in there!?”
“More, actually, Jel. Not a bad payday for a weekend goofing off. I was meaning to ask you about that,” Chris said, his voice dropping an octave, slipping into a quizical tone, “… I think we need to set up some kind of foundation. I am off to college in a few months. You’re better with a ledger than I’ll ever be, anyway. I want you to run the financial side. Think about it, Jel. Would you?”
Jelmer’s chest puffed out, clearly honored by the responsibility. Chris didn’t wait for a formal answer; he simply pulled Jelmer in, claiming his mouth in a hard, possessive kiss in the middle of the gym.
The conversation shifted to the day’s agenda. “I’m heading to the reclamation yard this afternoon,” Chris announced. Jessie made a face, looking genuinely disgusted. “The dump? Why the hell would you want to go there?”
“Because I’m not paying retail for bricks and metal fencing if I can scavenge them for free,” Chris countered, his mind already mapping out the bunker’s perimeter. “After I find what I need, we can hit the motocross track on the old dump. I want to see what those bikes of yours can actually do, Jessie.”
Jelmer’s excitement was palpable — finally, Chris was stepping into their world of dirt and engines. “Wear your leathers, Chris. I’ll lend you my old bike,” Jessie challenged, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “... because I want to bend you over the seat and go a few rounds myself!”
“Better not let little Peter hear you say that!” laughed Christopher.
Despite the official closure, immense progress had been made while Chris was gallivanting on the high seas. The local ironworkers had already finished the heavy timber shuttering for the roofs and the deep patio overhangs.
They’d even erected the rebar cages for six of the cabins flanking either side of the central path into town. The heavy lifting was effectively done; all that remained was for Chris to walk the line, approving the design and cross-referencing the work against the blueprints he’d engineered for his high school Capstone project.
It was a surreal feeling, seeing that complex lattice of rebar — once just a graded exam task — now standing as the physical skeleton of his future. With the drainage pipes installed and the collection tanks connected, the volunteers had even cleared a path for the concrete trucks to ensure the early-season campers remained undisturbed.
“Ha,” Christopher thought, a smirk playing on his lips. “I should leave more often. Things get done more quickly when I’m not here to nitpick.” The efficiency was a relief; it gave him the breathing room he needed to prepare for Wednesday. If he was going to be the center of attention at the beach club, he’d need to go shopping and get his hair done.
A few phone calls later, and after breakfast at Aunt Frida’s, he met with the building inspector. The work was signed off, and Chris felt an odd sense of euphoria. The plans he set in motion were all coming to fruition.
• Dear Diary. Last of May, Relief.
I’m glad the inspection is over. Building inspectors always make me nervous, but this one seemed genuinely impressed. Well, with the work, anyway. I think he might have issues with my other extracurricular activities. I over-engineered the hell out of the reinforcements, so I didn’t really have anything to worry about. Still, looking at the site now, I’ve already spotted a few refinements. I need to find some metal piping to hide the plastic drains. Ha, laying pipe... no, let’s not go there. I think these changes will make the individual cabins look more like gun emplacement bunkers.
All in all, I can’t wait to get my hands on Jelmer again. We’re back on speaking terms, and it turns out I didn’t really need his apologies after all. Seeing him was enough. I’m ready to move forward. Tomorrow is going to be a blast — back on stage with Wessel. Jelly-Belly is just going to have to wait a bit longer for that ‘make-up sex.’
Uncle Burt’s volunteer building crew arrived on-site and immediately followed Chris’s instructions. They set to work extending the walls between the two rows of cabins, transforming the steep stairs into a long, wheelchair accessible incline from the campground into town. As the retaining walls went up, Chris began sourcing pallets of the weathered sandstone bricks to hide the extra concrete.
He knew exactly the look he wanted, but wasn’t going to pay more than he needed. He’d head to the municipality-run recycling yard later that day, confident he’d scavenge the rest of what he needed from the Island’s discarded history.
Chris left the men to their work and headed into town to do his shopping before meeting Jelmer and Jessie for the race at the old dump. His first stop was ‘The Keynote,’ the biggest music shop on the Island. They sold everything from CDs and instruments to DVDs and sheet music. It was an odd, eclectic store, but Christopher felt right at home.
The owner greeted him with a mix of pride and genuine gratitude, thanking him for his idea for an Islander Youth Fund. It was clear Chris’s reputation was preceding him now. The burly twink picked up a copy of the music DVD with him and Wessel on the cover, and smirked.
“Hey Chris, how can I help you? Thanks to you, my guitar sales have been skyrocketing,” the owner admitted, leaning over the counter.
“I’m looking for something special for tomorrow,” Chris said, his voice steady, “… It sounds like I’ve got another performance at Wessel’s club.”
The excited owner led him to a corner of the shop where a dusty relic sat forgotten. It was a unique left-handed, double-necked electric guitar — a rare breed that had been gathering dust for years. To most, it was an impractical novelty, but to Chris, it was a technical marvel.
The owner watched, mesmerized, as Chris began integrating his new gear. He didn’t just want a single instrument; he wanted it all in one. Chris picked out a compact MIDI drum kit with a plan that was pure engineering: he would mount the velocity-sensitive trigger pads directly onto the wide body of the double-neck and link the MIDI computer to his amplifier.
It was an unorthodox, heavy-duty setup — a ‘one-man-band’ rig that required the precision of a technician and the soul of a rocker.
“Bass, lead, and drums,” Chris murmured, testing the new setup. “… I’m going to be a wall of sound. All I need now is a harmonica holder and a lapel mic, and I’ll be set —” he laughed, already visualizing how the components would lock together.
They hammered out a deal that included a rugged backpack case and a ‘bonus’ cheap import guitar the owner threw in for free. “We’ll auction this one off tomorrow for the Fund,” Chris said, signing the body of the spare guitar with a flourish. After a quick photo for the shop’s wall, he shot a text to Wessel with the auction idea.
The response was instant: “YES!! Absolute killer idea, Chris. We’ll slot the auction right before the headline set. We’ll set up a dedicated charity booth and get the business folks involved.”
After lunch, Chris suited up in the black leather gear he’d been piecing together — some bought, the rest ‘borrowed, found, or taken.’ Still, no one had come forth to claim the lost baggage. He caught his reflection as he zipped the jacket; even with the white sneakers, the blacked-out hide made him look the part. With Jes’s old cross bike and a borrowed set of boots and gloves, he was ready for the track.
The three of them tore down the main road, engines screaming as they cut a line from the west to the east of the Island — a blur of leather and colorful cross gear against the landscape.
At the county recycling yard, the gatekeeper watched with a suspicious gaze, certain they’d overshot the entrance to the motocross track next door. Once Chris explained his search for the metal pipe and brick, the man let him roam. The yard was a goldmine; Chris quickly secured the materials he needed and headed back out. He found Jelmer and Jessie already locked in a heated, high-revving battle on the track, and it was time for Chris to join the fray.
They had their fun racing, but they weren’t the only ones on the course that afternoon. At the back of the track, Chris spotted three nasty-looking guys sprawled in the tall grass on one of the south-facing corners, their bikes parked and forgotten. They weren’t watching the race; they were occupied, hands down their biker pants, stroking their hidden meat in the warm sun.
Once the heats were tallied — Jessie first, Jelmer second, and Chris a predictable third — the cousins began packing up. But Chris wasn’t done. He took a slow ‘loser-lap,’ veering toward the north bend. The cousins had warned him to steer clear of the ‘Easters,’ but the sight of them, horny and indifferent to the world, pulled him in. They looked nasty and unkempt, but Chris had seen worse at school. He wanted to see what kind of trouble they were actually offering.
“Get the fuck out of my sun!”
A gorgeous specimen with long blond curls and piercing blue eyes barked at the grinning Christopher. His biker overalls were bunched at his waist, exposing rippling muscles and a thick patch of pubes. The two friends he was with seemed a little more sociable than the tall hunk in the middle.
The young blond man barked, but Chris didn’t flinch. After all, barking dogs don’t bite.
“Hi to you too. I’m Chris.”
The powerful Easter sneered, recognizing him, “I am Wyatt, and you’re the drama queen everyone’s looking for. I don’t talk to tourists.”
Chris felt a flash of heat. “Wired, you say? Is your dick that thin? I’m a ‘Wester.’ Import, but no fucking tourist. And by the sound of it, you’re an ‘Easter’. But nobody is perfect. So don’t blame yourself —”
Chris grinned and did a sharp doughnut turn, spraying sand over them before stopping near Jelmer and Jessie.
“Careful, man!” Jelmer hissed. “Wyatt is a nutcase. That guy is a nasty, high-strung type of dude. He’ll beat you up for fun.”
Chris just laughed, giving Jelmer a few playful slaps.
“You know him? I love me some nuts. I know how to handle a basket case.”
With a smirk, Chris used his boot to smooth over a few ruts in the sand. When an angry Wyatt came charging over on his bike, his front wheel slipped into a hidden groove, nearly pitching him into the dirt.
“Careful now, Wy-rat. Wouldn’t want you to get hurt, gorgeous,” Chris taunted. Wyatt lunged off the bike and immediately tripped again, falling straight into Chris’s arms.
“Man, you’re having a hard time getting it up — standing up, I mean,” Chris joked meanly. He knew the type and had him where he wanted him.
Wyatt turned scarlet, swinging a punch that Chris blocked effortlessly. When Wyatt tried to knee him in the balls, Chris caught him, grabbed the back of his neck, and crushed their mouths together in a bruising kiss.
Wyatt’s eyes went wide. The stud had not expected that. He pulled back, tilted his head like a confused puppy, then growled and dove back in, kissing Chris with a desperate hunger.
The cousins watched in shock; the Island’s most vicious badass had been broken with one kiss. Chris pressed him close, letting his hand wander. “See, Wy-rat? Making friends isn’t hard. Your cock, however, is,” Chris whispered, squeezing the thin meaty twig. As long as the ten-inch seductive pole was, it wasn’t very wide. Just as Chris liked it.
Wyatt’s toughness instantly evaporated as Christopher gave his nuts a playful squeeze.
“I’m Wyatt,” he said as he extended his shaky hand.
Someone had finally out-bullied the beautiful hunk. Christopher released the long, slender prick, took the hand, and shook it, introducing himself. “Ah, sorry. I must have misunderstood your name. Wyatt, Right? You know Jelmer, and this is his bro, Jessie. Jelmer’s my boyfriend, and Jessie… well, he’s my sidekick,” Chris winked.
“Jelmer, are you gay?” Wyatt asked, breathless in surprise.
Jelmer answered by tongue-kissing Chris and lifting him off the ground by his leather-clad ass.
“He loves cock, too,” Chris laughed over his shoulder.
“Then I’ve got something for him,” Wyatt said, whipping the thin ten-by-four-inch tool free.
Chris just smirked, pulling out his own eight-and-a-half-inch heavy hitter. “Nice toy, man? Get to your fucking knees and suck on this,” exclaimed Christopher heatedly.
Wyatt instantly dropped to his knees, his badass Alpha persona melting into that of a total slut. He took Chris deep, moaning as his gloved hands reached out to stroke Jelmer and Jessie, who had also exposed themselves. When his friends, Okko and Pierce, joined the fray, the six of them turned the deserted cross track into a nasty free-for-all.
Chris got rough with Wyatt, yanking his long blond hair as he publicly face-fucked his throat. And once Wyatt’s motocombo dropped, he started screaming and shouting.
“Fuck me! Take my hole. Rape that shit. Pound me full. Arghh, Shit, Harder. Give me that horse cock! Slam it in, Chrissy. Ride me, Cowboy!”
Chris did not mind. He just fucked the stallion that much harder for it.
After Chris finally buried his load deep in a condom in Wyatt’s hole, they invited the Easters to ‘The Whaler’ for Wednesday night. The bridge between East and West had finally been built — one cock at a time.
On the drive back to the campground, Christopher was aglow. He had just experienced a man. He hadn’t just fucked the crap out of him; it wasn’t even about conquest or domination. Chris experienced what — according to him — sex with a real man could, or maybe should, be like.
Later that afternoon, the guys parked their bikes at Ben and Frida’s and walked to the commander’s bunker on the upper terrace that Chris had been calling home. The adrenaline was still humming in his veins as he started on their meal.
“If this keeps up…” thought Christopher as he prepared a home-cooked dinner for the three of them, “… I don’t know if I want to leave for college in September.”
• Dear Diary: May 26st, East met West.
I think I just had the best day ever. I met a surfer dude and — you know how I said I like ’em big and strong and preferably in some leather? Well, you can add that I like my guy to be as pig-headed and verbally rude as Wyatt. The blond hunk has a body to die for and an ass to boot. I guess that’s what you get when your father is a horse breeder. Boy, the mouth on that one! He didn’t stop grunting, ordering me to rape his hole, telling me he wanted it harder and rougher. I obliged. I thought the rubber would melt. Half the Island must have heard us hit it at the dump, and man, I did dump a huge load. The odd thing was, Wyatt is just as much an Alpha Top as I pretend to be. I can’t wait for him to take me like that.
And the best part, Jelmer kept egging me on; he didn’t mind one bit. I think he’s learned to share. How could he object? Jelly-Belly worked miracles on that piggy, Okko. Even Jessie slammed the power bottom, Pierce, to oblivion. Fun times!
After a lovely dinner, Chris had to shoo his second cousins away. He needed to wash and shave. Over the last month, he’d neglected his maintenance, and the fuzz was starting to show. He took out the trimmer and body razor and set to work in the small kitchen. He took his time, meticulously clearing every stray hair until his balls were smooth and his pubes were trimmed to a sharp, intentional perfection.
The only thing he didn’t touch was the down around his chin. Chris figured the best barber in town would be the one to work a miraculous razor on that. Wyatt, too, had a cute bit of fluff on his face that made him look a bit older than he probably was. “Image is everything,” Christopher thought.
Once the heavy lifting was done, Chris sauntered up to the shower block to finish the job. The afternoons’ exertions had left him reeking and sticky. After the grime had washed away and his hair was cleaned, Chris slipped into a pair of short jogging slacks. He caught his glowing reflection in the mirror. His hands wandered over his pumped pecs as he flexed his powerful arms.
The nineteen-year-old had walked to the shower block fully clothed, but he wasn’t about to deny the other campers this view of him on the return trip. Chris tugged the shirt in his shorts and headed back. His bare pits loved the breeze as he walked to the bunker, smelling of expensive body lotion and glistening in the late afternoon sun.
The sight that greeted the half-naked twink was frankly puzzling. Most of the volunteer group lounged on the bunker’s deck, taking over the high ground. From the crest of the dune, they had a perfect view of the town and the harbor glimmering in the distance. A cacophony of music already emanated over the rooftops from the city center just as the lighthouse beams burst into life. The Islander twinks were dressed to the nines, girlfriends fooling around with their men in the deckchairs. Even Wyatt and his buddies were there, looking surprisingly polished.
“Hi,” Chris said dazzled, as he looked over the group. “I thought the main event wasn’t until tomorrow!?”
“I invited them for a romp around town,” Jessie said, pausing as he drove his tongue into little Peter.
“They’ve been working hard enough. Time for some fun. Did you know Wyatt, Okko, and Pierce are in a band too? Maybe you can bang their drums…” Jelmer exclaimed.
The volunteers had become family — and familiar. Very familiar. “At the rate they’re going,” Chris thought, “… in nine months the midwives will have their hands full with new Islanders.”
However, Christopher had no time to contemplate the local birth rate. His phone buzzed in his pocket. It was the owner of The Keynote; his double-necked drum guitar was ready to be picked up.
“Well, let me slip into some clothes. Then we can grab something to drink and make some sweet music.”
Chris slid into his leather jeans, the cowhide clinging to his thighs, and pulled on his pointy cowboy boots. He topped it off with a white short-sleeved button-up so tight the seams threatened to pop, leaving the top three buttons undone to showcase his groomed chest. A heavy Cuban link chain caught the light, paired with a rugged leather wrist wallet. He looked every bit the-building-manager-turned-rock-icon.
As he stepped through the French doors and onto the patio, the transition from the quiet bunker to the roar of the crowd was instant. Chris stretched his arms wide, a slow, cocky grin spreading across his face as he twirled to give them the full view. The girls screamed like they were at a front-row concert, and the boys let out a chorus of jagged wolf-whistles. ‘Image is everything,’ he reminded himself, soaking in the worship.
The eighteen-strong group of giddy Islander twinks and twunks took the long way into town, their energy electric. It had clearly been a while since the locals had claimed the streets like this — unbothered by the ‘tourists’ they both loathed and desperately needed. Chris walked at the front of the center of the pack, the leather of his jeans creaking with every stride as the sun began to dip.
Chris’s heart skipped a beat as they reached the foot of the lighthouse. His own face greeted the partygoers from a massive banner draped over Tower Street, his photo larger than life against the darkening sky. It announced the main event and auction at ‘The Whaler’ tomorrow evening. Beneath the towering canvas, the owner of ‘The Keynote’ was huddled in a serious-looking circle with what seemed like every influential business owner in town.
He grabbed Wyatt and Jelmer around their waists to steady himself, the leather of his jeans creaking against his hips. He smiled nervously at both of them, giving each a quick, wet kiss before marching his group toward the waiting crowd. His new drum guitar, amp, and the various bits and bobs he’d ordered were staged outside the music store like a trophy display.
Wyatt smacked his leather-clad ass with a sharp crack, and Jelmer laughed, giving him a firm shove toward the businessmen. “Your own fault!” Jelmer teased, “… You wanted to do something for the Islander youths.”
The business owners spotted Chris and his pack of volunteer builders marching down the street. They swarmed Christopher, peppering him with questions about the new Youth Fund. “Are you going to run this?”, “What will it actually do?”, “How will you distribute the funds?”, “How will this benefit our kids?”
Chris let out a confident laugh, his eyes scanning their eager faces.
“All very good questions. No, I probably won’t be running it myself! But I have a specific Islander in mind who might. The Mayor, Wessel, and I will have to discuss the details, but they can’t do this on their own either. We need you — the business leaders — to pitch in if you want to make this a success.”
Chris leaned in, his voice dropping to a persuasive, gritty tone.
“You’ll need to hire local youths, giving them an education and a real job. We should fund leisure and learning — everything from music lessons to tourist trades and languages.”
The excitement in the group was palpable. “As you can see,” Chris continued enthusiastically, gesturing to the banner, “I’m auctioning off a signed guitar tomorrow. I’m hoping you guys can sponsor some equipment too. The more we raise, the quicker this motor starts running! It’s your spark now — you have to keep it idling.”
The crowd erupted in applause, and Chris felt the heavy, proud thumps of the Mayor and Wessel tapping his shoulders.
“Nice speech, Chris,” Silvia, the Madam Mayor, spoke, her eyes twinkling. “I knew you were the right person to receive the special Islander’s Pin.”
Chris was genuinely surprised, his chest swelling with a mix of pride and humility as he told her how happy he was to help. Wessel, however, looked a little disappointed.
“I’m sorry to hear you aren’t willing to run the fund yourself, though,” he admitted.
Chris offered a knowing smirk, glancing back at his crew. “I understand the feeling, Wessel. But I was thinking Jelmer might be a better man for the job… if he’s up for it.”
The suggestion was met with a roar of praise from everyone around.
The ‘Star’ took his seat on the bench outside the Keynote, resting the heavily modified double-necked guitar across his leather-clad lap. He looked up at the gathered Islanders — his friends, his new family — and let out a slow, cocky smile. Chris cranked the small amplifier to its limit and let rip.
The raw power of the first chord sliced through the air, and soon, the crowd swelled until Tower Street was completely blocked. As Chris poured his heart into his Islander song, the nearby bands fell silent, drawn toward the sound of a boy who could command a stage entirely on his own.
Just as it had been with Wessel, there wasn’t a dry eye under the bruised purple of the setting sun. The beams of the yellow-bricked lighthouse kept time with the music. Even the five Irish musicians he met last weekend seemed impressed — or were they annoyed?
• Continued in chapter 11 •
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© StrykerJ - March 2026
