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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 13
• New Realities: Slow love to soothe the soul.
Just before midnight on Wednesday, Chris’s cabin suddenly filled with a roar of sound as the cavalry burst in. Half the island police force led the charge, with Wyatt, Jelmer, and Sergeant Tomas hot on their heels.
Chris, oblivious to the world, only caught jagged snatches of the aftermath. Apparently, those five singing Irish ‘builders’ thought Chris had taken the auction money home with him. The thieving bastards! When his wallet was found empty, they’d taken his family’s heirlooms — and his dignity.
As his assailants were led away by the police, someone covered his modesty with the paint-splattered work shorts from that morning. Chris moaned and groaned but didn’t open his eyes.
At some point, he heard someone plead, “Tom, he’s in shock. No need to call the helicopter paramedics from the mainland. Let me take him. My sister’s a nurse practitioner — she’ll know what to do. Please!?”
Chris knew he was safe and felt his aching body go limp as a pair of strong arms lifted him outside to an awaiting vehicle. He was laid down on a roomy, premium leather backseat, the interior smelling of hay and expensive board wax, and knew no more.
Early on Thursday morning, Wyatt had gathered Chris’s pile of clothes to take to the laundry. As he dug through the pockets to clear them out, he found Chris’s Diary. His first instinct was a scoff; it seemed a little soft for a nineteen-year-old man to be keeping a journal. But as Wyatt flicked through the scribbled pages, the judgment died in his throat. The raw weight of the unloved boy and his longing for the Island hit him like a physical blow. Before he could close the cover, unbidden tears welled up in his eyes.
• Dear Chris’s Diary, Friday morning.
Glad to say that Chris is sort of fine. Those stupid bastards didn’t get far on Wednesday. I just wish I hadn’t left ‘The Whaler’ with Officer Tomas after my phone got swiped. Those pricks had it the whole time. I’m certain they used the text Chris sent me to track him down — that thought is going to haunt me for a while. But he’s as okay as we can make out. He’s been out cold in my bedroom since yesterday. Johanna patched him up as best she could, and I found you tucked in his back pocket. I know I shouldn’t have read you, but after the first few pages, I was hooked.Diary, I’m Wyatt, by the way. I live with my stepdad, Otto, and my two sisters out toward the eastern end of the Island. Otto, for once, wasn’t pissed I brought a guy home to the stud farm. And man, am I glad Chris ‘introduced’ himself to me on the cross track last week. Until then, I thought I was only into bottom piglets — the ruder the better.
But Chris-TOP-her is the versatile top I’ve been hunting for all my twenty-two years. Well, ever since I realized I liked to fuck ass, too. To be honest, Diary, that pink hole of Chris might just be exactly what the doctor ordered. I wouldn’t mind waking up to this one on a freezing winter morning, just to slide ‘Freddy’ inside and press him close. Nothing rough, just a solid cuddle and his heat to warm up Freddy’s dripping wet nose.
From what I’ve read, Chris is like a sponge. He just tends to let people in. Wearing his heart on his sleeve. I’m more of a rock, but I wouldn’t mind letting him come to me. Hell, he can cum on me, in me, or all over me. He gives as good as he takes. I think that was Jelmer’s mistake; he declared his love without ever considering what the stallion actually planned to do next. I’ll let Chris decide. I’m just hoping I’m part of those plans, because this short stud is a keeper — if he wants to be kept.
I call him ‘short,’ but damn, Chris is something fierce. My six-foot-seven frame is a foot taller than his, but he makes up for it with raw strength and style. The way he carries himself, his musculature, his leather outfits. He’s a rockstar, a powerhouse. A sixteen-hand tall stallion like him… Fuck! He turns me on. From what I’ve heard, he’s a hell of a cook and a homemaker, and the guy speaks eight or nine languages.
And well… his manhood is impressive. A real ass-filler. I’ve already had the pleasure of him tearing me a new one. What he lacks in length — compared to my ten inches — Chris triples in girth. Not saying his dick is short, though. And those taut ass muscles of his could crush a full beer can with ease. I don’t know if you can tell, Diary, but I’m smitten. This cowboy can ride me anytime, anywhere. I’ll let the stallion roam free, though. He’s a versatile breeder into all kinds of kinky shit, and I love every bit of it.
I just hope he doesn’t mind me using you to vent. I know Chris has his demons and his trigger points. I just hope I never have the misfortune of meeting his brothers, because I would fuck them up. I mean it. Calling him the ‘faggot runt’ of the family just because he didn’t have enough girlfriends? I bet he had plenty — he just didn’t let those assholes know.
I have to go. I think Chris is finally waking up… talk soon.
- Love, Wytze Antone Theodor Teller — aka Wyatt.
PS: Really sorry for desecrating your thoughts.
As Christopher stirred, Wyatt scooted behind the young man, spooning his hurt buddy fully clothed under the duvet. What those assholes did to him last Wednesday had left its marks. Nothing too bad, but Johanna had Christopher in a turban of bandages to cover the bleeding wound on the back of his head. He had two shiners, and a few bruises on his lower back — Chris had surely taken a beatdown, alright. Good thing it hadn’t lasted long. Who knows what the Irish musicians would have done to him otherwise?
Chris grunted in pain as Wyatt’s torso pressed against his back. The surfer dude tried to give him some space, but Chris — lying on his side with his thumb in his mouth and his legs pulled up like an injured toddler — just fumbled behind him. He grabbed Wyatt’s arm and pushed it over his stomach like a blanket. Wyatt smirked and leaned forward, stuffing his other arm under Chris’s neck, locking the twink’s frame to his. The embrace sent the stocky teddy bear back to sleep for a moment, feeling safe and at peace with the world.
“Wyatt — where are we? Why are we at sea?” Christopher mumbled after a few minutes.
“Morning, Colt,” Wyatt chuckled and kissed Chris’s neck, sending shivers through the boy.
“We are not at sea. You have a mild concussion and — well — I have a waterbed.”
“That would explain it. I can’t remember a thing about last night. Did they get those pervs?”
“Ha — you’re behind the times, Chris. It’s Friday morning already — um — 9:13. You’ve been out of it for over twenty-four hours.”
“That would explain it,” Chris said again. He stifled a big yawn and looked over his shoulder at Wyatt.
“Explain what?”
“I desperately need a piss, and I could eat a horse!”
Wyatt helped the shaky boy to his feet and walked him to the bathroom, telling the dude to sit down to piss. Chris had been swaying alarmingly as he heaved himself out of a pair of Wyatt’s high-cut briefs. The guys smirked at each other as Wyatt heard his friend piss like a racehorse. Chris let out a loud, unflattering fart, and Wyatt smirked, “Better out than in.”
After the twink tucked himself back into the sexy briefs, Wyatt set Chris on a stool in front of the bathroom mirror and took off the turban.
“Not too bad. We only need to clean you up a little. Does it still hurt, Chris?”
“No, I feel a heck of a lot better with your dick riding against my back,” Christopher smirked, looking horny as he caught Wyatt’s eye in the mirror. “Are these sexy briefs yours? I’m more of a trunks kind of guy, but these contain everything nicely.”
“Cut it out, Chris! Doctor’s orders. No Sex! You’ve been used and abused enough this week.”
“Yeah, I guess so. But still —, could we just cuddle a bit more? You don’t have to stick it in. Although?… I wouldn’t mind —”
Chris pulled himself up by the sink and slowly turned around. He grabbed Wyatt around the waist and pressed his head to the man’s chest, feeling the muscles tighten as the twenty-two-year-old surfer hunk kissed the top of his sore head.
The action sent shivers down Chris’s spine. It was a new feeling, one he had never experienced quite like this before. As Wyatt held him tight and their eyes met, Christopher felt ‘Loved’ — with a capital L. As he hooked a hand around the back of Wyatt’s head to pull him in for a kiss, he muttered, “Thanks —”
The blond surfer hunk didn’t have to ask what he was being thanked for. He knew exactly what was going on in Chris’s bruised brain. Frankly, Wyatt was feeling the same way about the sexy singer-songwriter. The spark had ignited the day they met on the cross-track, and that flame hadn’t died — it had only grown stronger. Christopher had become ‘the-brother-from-another-mother’ Wyatt had always wanted. Yet, he wanted more, so much more. However, he knew the balls — both of them — were in Chris’s court.
They walked back to Wyatt’s room. However, rather than getting dressed to go downstairs, Chris shucked the borrowed briefs and sweatshirt. He rested his naked body on the king-sized mattress, lying his head in the crease between the pillows. There was something in Chris’s eyes Wyatt couldn’t refuse — a silent command.
Wyatt quickly ripped off his brown leather cowboy vest and snap-button denim shirt. The scruffy brown work shoes and ripped jeans followed. Wyatt was going commando, and his dick was already blushing with pride. As he climbed onto the foot of the bed, Chris sneakily lifted his legs, twisting his ass in the air.
Before Wyatt knew it, he was already deep inside that tortured hole. He tried to pull back, his instinct to protect was warring with his hunger, but his lover held him tight.
“Just stick it in,” Chris whispered, his voice a ragged plea. “I need to know if… I want to feel… Oh… Wyatt, just stick it in, love, and I can tell if it hurts or not. We don’t have to fuck — go nice and slow.”
Wyatt locked his eyes on Christopher as he inched forward, watching for any sign of distress. When none came, and the boy locked his arms around the hunk, Wyatt let his full weight drop onto the man. He let out a long sigh of relief as his head rested on the pillow next to Chris’s. Boy, that hole felt so nice, and his dick was rock hard.
How long they lay there, locked in a tight embrace, Chris didn’t know. He might even have dozed off to dreamland for a moment as his brain concocted images of the two of them making out on the dusty floor of his new home. The beams of the Island’s Lighthouse pounded stars in front of his eyes.
“Huh? That can’t be right? It’s still morning, the sun is out.” Chris thought, suddenly snapping back to reality. “Mainlanders can’t just purchase a home on the Island, either. You need all kinds of permissions to buy a house — let alone build one…”
It was Wyatt who had started to gyrate his hips, pounding his ten inches in long, but steady, strokes in and out. The rhythm was slow but deliberate, the thin shaft sliding in and out of Chris’s boy cunt.
As Chris grabbed the buttocks of his lover and upped the tempo, he heard Wyatt swear and bust a nut. The breeding stallion grinned dirty, as he fucked the brains out of Christopher. This was the medication the doctor had failed to order, but it was exactly what the man needed to get over the horrors of the week.
It was coffee time when Chris followed Wyatt downstairs. They found Otto, Johanna, and his younger half-sister Maren in the kitchen. The old farmhouse smelled of strong coffee and horses as the warm early summer air blew in through the open windows, filling his senses. As they entered the hub of the home, Chris caught his first glimpse of the youngest Teller.
Standing at the counter was Maren — though everyone called her ‘Mare.’ At only eighteen, she possessed a raw, adult magnetism that made the ‘innocent’ girls her age look like children. She had a mane of brown hair that cascaded down her bottom, thick and wavy as a horse’s tail, and eyes so brilliantly green they practically glowed against her tanned skin. Even with Chris’s preferences being what they were, he couldn’t help but notice the way her thin tank top struggled to contain a pair that would’ve made a monk question his vows.
“About time you two crawled out of that hole,” Johanna chirped, her voice full of sibling mischief. “How are you feeling, Christopher?” she asked as she grabbed his wrist to measure his pulse and peered in his eyes to check the reaction speed of his pupils.
Wyatt let out a rough laugh and swatted at the back of her head, though he missed by a mile. “Guys, this is the stallion I told you about. Chris, this is Otto, Johanna, and Maren.”
Maren finally let her beautiful green eyes sweep over Chris’s bruised face and his ‘shiners’ with a look of genuine sympathy.
“Nice to meet you, Chris. I enjoyed your show at the Whaler. You look like hell, but at least you’re in good hands. Sit down — what do you want? Full English, or just some scrambled eggs on bread?”
“Oh, I could do with some canned soup and dry toast, miss.”
“Cheap skate!” smiled Maren.
“Actually, that sounds about right. He shouldn’t overwhelm his system,” said nurse Johanna, whispering under her breath to the table, “He got Wytze for that.”
Chris sat, enveloped by the warmth of the kitchen and the free-and-easy affection of the Tellers. It was a far cry from the cold, judgmental taunts of his own brothers. As he watched Maren move with the butch confidence of a woman twice her age, he realized he wasn’t just falling for Wyatt — he was falling for the whole damn family.
To overwhelm his senses even more, the burly bear, Otto, laid a calloused hand over Chris’s arm. “Are you really okay, son? Officer Tomas has been calling for news all day yesterday. He seemed worried.”
“I’m doing surprisingly well, sir. Your boy has taken good care of me,” Chris said, glancing at Wyatt. “I probably look worse than I feel, but I need a moment to wrap my head around… well, let’s just say it was a strange week, sir.”
“Call me Dad, Chris,” Otto grunted. “I don’t always approve of Wyatt’s friends — but I can see why he likes you.”
Wyatt, Maren, and Johanna looked at each other in stunned silence. Otto wasn’t one for praise, especially not for strangers. Even Chris was at a loss for words. There it was again — that fierce Teller love.
After some soup and bread, Chris excused himself for some fresh air. He wandered past the paddocks, watching the mares and stallions drift through the high grass. Even the horses seemed curious about the stranger in their midst. Chris perched himself on the wooden fence of the north paddock, the one nearest the woods. It held only one stallion — a magnificent, towering specimen. The blond Haflinger began a series of mock attacks — rearing, kicking, and bucking at the air.
As Chris settled on the top rail, his Diary almost tumbled from his back pocket. He caught it just in time, but as the pages flicked open, his eyes snagged on the fresh ink of Wyatt’s entry.
At first, a flare of anger licked at his chest — a violation that felt sharper than the Irish thugs — until he actually read the words. He read them once, then a second time. By the third, his vision blurred. Happy tears hit the paper, staining the ink.
His raw emotion had an unexpected effect on the stallion. Thunder stomped toward the fence, but Chris didn’t flinch. The beast didn’t charge; instead, he buckled his knees and tilted his head. He was inviting Christopher to mount him.
“Get out of there! Thunder will kick and bite!” Otto screamed, sprinting toward the fence. Wyatt followed hot on his heels.
But the young man climbed on and calmly called back, “Thunder can’t be all bad, sir! He wants me to ride him.”
At the sound of Chris’s voice, Thunder rose and stepped serenely around the paddock. As the two trotted toward Wyatt and Otto, Chris slid off Thunder’s back and gave him a gentle pat on the glistening neck. Then, the magnificent beast stunned them all.
Thunder stepped closer, his upper lip twitching, and nuzzled Chris’s cheek. He draped his massive head over Chris’s broad shoulder, pressing the young man against his muscular chest. The stallion even hooked a raised hoof gently around Chris’s leg in a gesture of pure gratitude.
Chris stood there, petted by a mountain of a horse — a boy who had never ridden a day in his life, suddenly claimed by a nineteen-hand king.
“Well, if Thunder thinks you’re good enough, who are we to judge?” sighed Ottto, relieved.
As the three men walked the tall stallion back to the farmstead, Chris riding Thunder bareback with his hands buried in the blonde mane, Otto looked up and smiled at the young man.
“Damn, Chris. You could’ve been killed. None of us could get close to Thunder for weeks. If you ever want a job, just give me a call. You’re a natural.”
After the men gave Chris a full tour of the farmstead, he helped Wyatt groom the hulking stallion. Wyatt joked that Chris could definitely use a bit of grooming himself; his hair was a wild mess. With one playful swipe of the horse brush, Wyatt smoothed a side part into place, making the younger man look a thousand times better.
Just before dinner at the Tellers’, Chris suddenly asked Wyatt to drop him off at the main police station. He remembered he wanted to ask Sergeant Tomas if they’d recovered his jewelry. As strange as it might sound to an outsider, the unconditional love he felt at the Tellers’ freaked him out more than the lack of it at his parents’ house. Otto tried to convince Chris to stay for dinner, but the boy didn’t waver.
Wyatt loaded him into his souped-up Volkswagen Amarok Aventura — a matte-black beast with big sand-crusted boots, red accents, and a heavy-duty winch that could pull a boat from a sandbar.
With his surfboards strapped to the rollbar and a massive bullbar leading the way, the truck was pure muscle, much like the man who drove it like he owned both sides of the Island’s roads.
The minor concussion had turned Chris’s world into slow motion. As Wyatt gunned the diesel engine and the big tires spun on the sand path toward the red-brick road, Chris leaned his head against the headrest. His thoughts, usually a chaotic firework display, had slowed to a heavy, deliberate crawl — a side effect of the trauma that left every unformed idea feeling unnervingly clear and focused. He watched the Island and the trees flash by, his mind drifting into even deeper thoughts.
He pondered about college, the mainland, and the inevitable end of this working holiday. Even the gritty work on the bunkers that was still waiting for him bounced through his brainpan. Wyatt reached over, his massive, calloused hand squeezing Chris’s thigh. “Still with me, Colt?” Chris’s mouth twitched up at the word ‘Colt.’
“Yeah, just thinking… I… I need to come up with plans D, E, and F, Stud.”
“I hope those plans involve me,” Wyatt said wearily, his eyes fixed on the asphalt ahead. Chris didn’t answer. He just laid a light hand over Wyatt’s on the gear shifter.
He’d come to the Island to escape being the ‘runt’ of the family, and so far, it had worked. Granted, there had been some hiccups along the way. There were still many hurdles to overcome, but Chris saw light at the end of the tunnel. He was still filled with adrenaline from that morning’s love embrace.
Up ahead, Wyatt spotted his buddy Okko. He was tending to the horses that had pulled a load of tourists into the yard as the covered wagons returned from their day trip through the nature reserve. Okko was a soft-natured but rugged twenty-three-year-old with broad shoulders. Chris saw Wyatt look and told him to stop. He felt the fading vibration of the truck’s diesel engine in his teeth as they pulled up to greet the young horseman.
Okko’s father was deep in conversation with a city council bureaucrat, something about emptying manure bins and pending environmental fines. As Wyatt and Okko chatted, Chris wandered over to Mister Hek. He introduced himself once the inspector finally left.
“I may have a solution for your problem, sir. I need to create some compost to improve the soil at the Bunkers of Ben and Frida.”
“Cool. Let me know what you come up with, soan… it would help us a lot. Been in a fight, have you?” Mister Hek asked, eyeing the bruised face of the young man. Chris nodded in shame, but this made his head hurt even worse, so he stopped and went back to Okko and Wyatt.
“You look like you’ve been through a meat grinder, Chris. Those damned Irish — they’d been kicked out of three hotels before they ‘visited’ you,” Okko noted. Wyatt had clearly shared the latest gossip with his best friend. Chris just smirked, feeling the ache in his head pulse in time with his heart. Okko handed his sunglasses to Chris to hide the shiners as the boys continued westward.
“One more item crossed off the list,” Christopher thought to himself.
Halfway across the Island, he spotted Sergeant Tomas’s private vehicle parked outside Jelmer’s tiny farmhouse. The slow-motion drift of his brain finally clicked into gear. He knew exactly what he wanted, who he wanted, and how he was going to make this Island his permanent home. But he had no real clue how to go about it. He would need all kinds of permits, and new houses weren’t allowed. He would have to look into that as soon as possible.
“Give your brain a rest, Chris,” said Wyatt, looking at the contemplating man beside him.
“Wyatt, stop here!” Christopher half-shouted. Wyatt threw out the anchors, and the car screeched to a halt.
“Why? What’s up? Do you need to throw up?”
“No, I need to speak to Jelmer, and I guess Tomas is with him.”
“That can wait, can’t it, Colt?” Wyatt asked pensively.
“Don’t worry your pretty blond head about it… Umm… Wytze,” Chris smirked, tapping Wyatt’s face. “I just want to tell those guys I’m okay in person. I’m not done with ‘Freddy’ just yet. See ya latersss, stallion.”
Wyatt’s jaw tightened as he realized Chris had read his sneaky Diary entry. His gripping knuckles had turned white against the premium gray leather on the steering wheel, and his cheeks flushed red. He let out a low, rough exhale — half-aroused by the bratty comment and half-pissed off at being dismissed. He didn’t argue, but the sudden move left a sour taste in the back of his mouth.
Being consumed by his own thoughts, the twink did not notice; Chris waved at Wyatt as the man did a U-turn and raced back home.
• Continued in chapter 14 •
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© StrykerJ - April 2026
