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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 14
• New Realities: Creating the puzzle pieces.
The short walk from the main street to Jelmer’s cottage, that Friday afternoon, soothed Chris’s body. Without knocking, he opened the front door of the tiny cottage dwelling. To his surprise, Chris found Jelmer sucking bullets out of a triple-barreled ebony shotgun. His hands were cuffed behind his back, his eyes locked in loving worship at the towering, dominating Dutch Caribbean hunky black cop above him. Jelmer’s mouth was overflowing with seed as he struggled to swallow it all.
As Chris watched Tomas in full ecstasy and saw him prevent Jelmer from pulling free, he locked eyes with the Island’s only black cop. He wasn’t surprised at all to see his second cousin worshipping this tall black hunk. Growing up, Jelmer had always been full of stories of well-endowed black tourists he’d spotted on the nude beaches. This hung, ebony Caribbean man was a much better fit for his second cousin than Chris could ever have been. Sure, there was an eighteen-year age gap between them, and heads would turn if the Islanders found out, but love is love — even if it’s of the short-term, lustful kind.
Tom grinned at Chris, stretching out an arm to bro-hug the twink.
“See, Jelmer —” Chris mused, “All those years you dreamed of seeing a black guy have sex finally paid off. Sure, in those stories you told us, it was with some tourist chick — but isn’t this much better?”
He turned to Tomas and asked, “Was he any good, sir?”
“Ha, I gave Jel no choice in the matter. He had to service me. Are you okay, Chris?”
“Never better,” he replied contentedly. “And there you were, Tom, thinking you couldn’t find an Islander to screw around with, while he lived right around the corner from you. Lucky bastard. Jelly-Belly is quite the catch.”
“You’re one to complain, Chris,” said Jelmer. “How was Wyatt? Has the stallion bred you yet? Good to see you out and about again, Cuz,” smirked Jelmer as he cleaned his face on his sleeve. The links of the metal handcuffs clicked behind his back.
“Thanks. I saw Tom’s black Land Rover and wanted to ask if they’d found Grandpa’s ring. Sofia will kill me if I tell her I lost it after one day.”
“Oh, yeah. We found it and that pendant you sported. It looks worse for wear, though,” Officer Tomas sighed. “Thanks to the recording on your phone, those bastards were carted off to the mainland for processing. They were lucky I didn’t use their balls for target practise on the air force range with a squadron of F-16s.”
Chris let out a sigh of relief as he gave the cop and his cousin a grateful hug. The three men chatted for a while after Jelmer was set free and ordered to serve the tall black hunk and the stocky stud a cold drink. Jelmer had adapted quickly to his new role as servant to his master, and Chris smirked as the white boi sat on his knees next to black Master Tomas.
The three friends spent the next hour swapping accounts of last Wednesday night. Chris didn’t hold back, either. He spilled everything — the good, the bad, and the ugly. Once the air cleared, Tom shook off the jarring mental images and slipped back into ‘officer-mode. He drove Chris to the main police station to pick up his belongings. His jewelry, wallet, and phone looked worse for wear, but everything was there. The police recorded Christopher’s statement, and they dropped him off at the Westbound bus stop.
Dear Diary: Friday afternoon, 4:58 PM - Reader discretion. NO SEX.
Hi, it’s been a while. Could not be helped. Those Irish put a hurting on me. Good thing Wyatt and the police arrived so quickly. And if I hadn’t tripped and banged my head… OH, never mind; Water under the bridge.
I just wanted to say, reader, if you expect me to have sex — Like usual — this part of my story may not be for you. I’ll expect the next few Chapters might suit you better. This is just me planning my future. Making lists and generating plans.
Got to go, the bus is here…
As the bus rattled past the World War II air defense museum, a few stops outside the main town, Chris noticed massive heaps of crushed seashells and rock base. His mind, still clicking in slow-motion, immediately began to build. He made a mental note to see if he could use the disused materials to create a winding path from Ben and Frida’s. He could see it skirting the edge of the campgrounds, snaking the maintenance road behind the old barracks, and going down to the lower terrace.
“All I’d need is sand, cement, and a large concrete mixer,” he muttered to his reflection in the bus window. “We can pack the dry mix between those red pavers I found and water them in, and Bob’s your Aunt and Fanny’s your Uncle… No, wait. The other way around.”
He chuckled to himself, the mind-numbing bus’s vibration echoing the pulse in his temple. It was one more piece of the puzzle; he just needed to find out who owned the scrap heaps and if he could talk his way into using them.
Chris stepped off the bus and lingered by a realtor’s window. The prices on the ‘For Sale’ posters were a joke for a kid who hadn’t even started technical college, yet. But his mind was set — he wanted to make this Island his home. As he eyed the listings, the realtor herself was about to close the office as she stepped outside.
“Good’n, Chris,” she greeted him with a knowing look. “Window shopping, or looking to settle down on the Island?”
“Expanding my possibilities,” Chris said, adjusting his sunglasses, he admitted, “… Though I think I’ll need more than just a summer’s worth of wages.”
She ushered him inside, cutting straight to the chase: to stay, he needed to register as an Islander with City Hall and secure a housing permit. It required a handful of petitions from local well-wishers to prove he belonged. To his shock, she pulled an official-looking form from a stack and signed one herself.
“That’s your first Affidavit of Local Character Reference,” she said, sliding the paper over. “Getting the rest should not be an issue. You’re very well known, Chris. Clear it with the council, then come back. I’ve got a few cheap places that don’t make the front window.” She handed Chris a stack of blank forms and sent him on his way.
“There you go, Chrissy… you don’t have to jump through hoops after all. This might actually become a reality,” he thought. Chris felt himself go giddy; he’d found a mate and a way to get through the gated front door to the Island. A job or two and a little luck might just do the trick.
He walked past a large Villa, where the ferry CEO, Douwe, and his wife lived. They sat outside, soaking in the late-afternoon sun. Christopher decided to push his luck. He raised a hand in the air and, in true Islander fashion, gave a sharp, tonal call. “Hêh.”
Douwe invited him in for a cold drink. When Chris explained his bold new plan, the man didn’t hesitate; he grabbed a Character Reference form and filled it out with a raving review. The man even suggested he could find the boy a job on the ferries if he wanted one. He didn’t bite just yet, but Chris’s eyes grinned widely.
He was already mentally scrolling through a list of names for his next move. Beyond his relatives, he needed heavy hitters. Otto Teller, Wessel, and Skip’s dad, the Island’s baker, flashed through his mind. Even Sergeant Tomas’s signature would carry massive weight with the council — though Chris wondered if he’d already caused too much trouble for a cop’s official endorsement. Gran Sofia and his Islander aunts and uncles would be delighted, surely.
But thinking of them brought his mind drifting back home. “Mom will hate this, but Dad?… would he actually prefer me living here than in some big college city on the mainland? He was born on the Island, I think I’d be happier here as well,” he mused.
And as for the sex? Well, Chris had already found more than a few lovers. Granted, he’d found a few haters, too. “But I don’t need those bastards to petition the council on my behalf, now, do I?”
Chris ducked into the jeweler’s just before closing, dropping the evidence bag of mangled antique heirlooms onto the counter. While the assistant measured his ring finger to resize his grandfather’s crushed signet ring, Chris picked out a rugged, black-and-metal replacement for daily wear.
“I need something strong,” he muttered, wanting a band that wouldn’t buckle under the weight of his new life. He had her swap the ripped leather pendant cord for a sturdy woven one and hang the carved stone on a silver chain on his chiseled pecs. Chris got his ear pierced as the assistant fastened a high-end black Niobium ringlet. He left the shop with a slight throb in his earlobe that made him feel more butch than he had in days.
As he dropped off a Character Reference form at his Great Uncle Mathias’s place, his second cousin, Peter, pulled him aside. “Can we talk in private?” he whispered nervously.
Chris had a feeling he knew what this was about — Peter’s upcoming birthday and the sudden, itching freedom to ‘try stuff out’ with Jessie. Chris smiled softly and deflected. “Yeah, good plan, but can it wait until after dinner? Come look me up at the commander’s bunker around six or seven, buddy.”
He walked over to the Whaler and plopped into a quiet corner of the terrace outside. He ordered a Coke and Swedish meatballs, but it was Wessel himself who emerged to serve the young singer-songwriter the pre-dinner snack with fries and a small salad on the house.
“You look like shite, boy,” Wessel noted bluntly, setting the tray down.
“I probably look worse than I feel. I feel great, actually. I’ve had time to think —.”
And he was off. Chris laid out his change of plans — his house-hunting, his job-seeking, and his catch of the week, Wyatt.
Wessel cut him off with a chortle. “Don’t let the meatballs go cold. I’ll sign the reference — we need more guys like you on the Island. But here’s the kicker: the festival cleared 123,000 euros! It was amazing, soan. And all because of your initiative. Sorry your day ended in such a wreck, though.”
“It wasn’t all bad, Daddy,” Chris replied with a smirk. “I woke up in a wobbly waterbed with a very nice guy. Amazing indeed.”
After the snack, he thought, “This is coming together nicely. At this rate, I’ll have enough part-time gigs to actually pay the bills.”
Chris strode into Ben and Frida’s kitchen, shouting “Folk!” to announce his arrival. The scent of Frida’s famous minestrone hit him instantly, but he nearly tripped over his own luggage piled by the door. His heart sank. Had he been kicked out of the ‘commander’s bunker’ already?
Frida lunged at him, sobbing the moment she saw his blackened eyes. Knowing she wouldn’t be consoled by words, Chris nudged her toward the stove. “I am fine. Any more of that minestrone, Aunt Frida?” Giving the seventy-two-year-old matriarch a task worked like a charm.
Ben squinted from the table, his voice stern. “If you’re so fine, how’d you end up with a concussion?”
“I tripped and banged my head, sir. But why is my gear up here? Am I being evicted?”
Jessie and Uncle Burt laughed. “No, man,” Jessie explained. “A large Japanese tour group is taking most of the upper cabins. You can bunk in Jelmer’s old room for a few weeks.”
“I’d rather stay on the jobsite,” Chris countered. “Can I rent cabin three while I finish the floors in cabin one? And is there space in the budget to move the toilet and build a proper shower?”
“I’m running a campground, not a hotel!” Ben barked in surprise.
“Now, now, Bernard,” Frida chided. “The boys have said those bunkers needed showers for years. Besides, Chris has only spent a third of the budget.”
“Yeah, well — money doesn’t grow on trees,” Ben grumbled, though his defensive posture was already softening.
Frida listened to Ben and her favorite great-nephew debate over costs and the height of the flagpole, a small smile playing on her lips.
“That is such a great idea, Christopher! A landmark like that would rival the lighthouse. Get the tallest flagpole you can order. I’ll get the girls from my knitting circle to construct two dozen flags. We’ll use lightweight ripstop sailcloth so they actually catch the breeze. That stuff is sturdy enough to survive the sun and salt air,” she interrupted, her eyes twinkling as she proudly recited the old Island flag rhyme:
‘Red for the roofs and blue for the sky,
Yellow for the dunes where the beach grass grows high,
Green for the meadows, and white for the sand.
Those are the colors of our Islander land.’
“Well, that’s me outsmarted,” sighed Great Uncle Ben. “Just make sure the foundation is strong enough, soan. On top of our dune, the North Sea storms can be fearsome.”
“I’ve got calculations for that. Don’t worry, Ben. It’ll be an eye-catcher, right in a prime location above the town roofs,” Chris added with a smirk, knowing he’d finally won over his skeptical Uncle. Though he expected the logistics of getting a forty-foot flagpole by ferry to the Island might become an expensive saga of its own.
“One more piece of the puzzle,” Chris thought, feeling the sting of the Niobium ring in his ear and the Character References in his pocket. He wasn’t just building a path or a flagpole; he was building a reason for them to never let him leave.
“So, how’s the inspector been behaving?” Chris asked, leaning his aching head into his hands at the kitchen table.
“You mean ‘Dick’ Burk?” Uncle Burt snorted. “Man’s a menace. He’s demanding we replace the entire staircase down to town. Says it’s a safety hazard.”
Ben slid an official ‘Notice of Violation’ across the table.
Chris scanned it and let out a sharp, dry laugh. “Ha! We’ve got him by the balls. This is Road Maintenance territory; it’s not even on Harbor View property. He’s overstepping. This is going to cost him dearly!”
“He’s threatening to revoke our occupancy permits, too,” Ben added, his voice tight with worry.
“Ben, that’s a council decision, not his. He’s making noise just because he can. Bullies always do that,” Chris grumbled, though Uncle Burt reminded him that Burk sat on that very council.
“That Figures. The king, the general, and the henchman!?” Chris muttered. “I’ll handle the paperwork later. If the council wants a ramp on their property, they can pay for it. My time ain’t free to abuse.”
At that moment, little Peter knocked on the kitchen door. His boyfriend, Jessie, let him inside. Chris had all but forgotten that the kid wanted an urgent private word.
“Why is your place dark and empty, Chris? —” The youngest of his second cousins blurted out, looking at the stacked luggage in the kitchen.
“Change of plans, but good you’re here. You can help me put my stuff in the buggy and drive me to one of the other cabins, while Jessie helps his Gran with the dishes.”
Chris winked at Jessie, who seemed to understand his presence wasn’t required for this part. Jessie helped load the converted golf cart.
“Thanks for the soup, Frida. I’m taking it slow this weekend. I promise!” Chris called out.
He caught Peter’s eye — his youngest cousin was practically vibrating with nervous energy. Jessie gave his boyfriend a hug and a kiss, sending them on their way with a wave.
Chris could see that the young man sitting next to him in the cart was vibrating with a specific kind of dread. He tried some light chit-chat to break the tension, but Peter wasn’t biting. Cabin number three was still bare — no kitchen unit, no mattress, just a lonely couch and a few chairs huddled around a rickety dining table.
After they’d hauled Chris’s gear inside, he hooked an arm around the height-challenged boy. Like Chris, Little Peter didn’t have that towering Dutch stature, but the young jock had been putting in hours at the gym with the older guys. He’d filled out into a sexy MoFo in his own right, and Chris knew exactly why his eighteen-year-old boyfriend had the hots for him. From what he’d seen in the communal showers, Peter could measure up to the big guys with a solid seven inches of his own.
“Wassup?” Chris asked, pulling Peter down onto the couch. He eyed the garbage bag the boy was clutching, as if it might explode.
“Chris, I… I’ve had sex-ed at school, but they only covered girls. And, well, I like guys,” Peter admitted, staring at his shoes. “So, I figured I’d ask you.”
“Smart move, Cuz. Only one problem — I only figured this shit out four weeks ago myself. Before that, I was strictly with women. Stupid, really, I did it to keep the peace at home and hide my true feelings for guys.”
“Really?” Peter’s head snapped up, bewildered. “Then how did you… What was it like?… Look, Cuz, I’m finally old enough in a few weeks, Chris. I want Jessie to make love to me, but I have no idea what I’m doing. Isn’t it going to hurt?”
“Ah… so that’s what this is about,” Chris said, pulling Peter closer. “I’ve seen you blow Jessie. You like him, don’t you? You trust him?”
“Yeah,” Peter whispered.
“Then pick a quiet spot and talk to him first. Explain your nerves,” Chris said, his voice dropping into a steady, older-brotherly tone. “When you’re ready to take it beyond kissing and stroking, just keep the dialogue open. It might sting for a moment or two — more of a shock than real pain — but if you’re relaxed, he’ll slide in with relative ease.”
“Yeah, but still…” Peter muttered, his face flushed red.
“Sex is a discovery, Peet — a book you write together. It’s nothing like the porn you’ve seen online. If you don’t have protection, get your brother, Jan-Timo, to buy you some condoms and a bottle of lube. Maybe even a small dildo so you can get used to the feeling on your own first. Take it slow. If it gets uncomfortable, you tell him to stop.”
“Yeah… but what if I have an accident?”
Chris let out a rough laugh. “Ha… shit happens, literally. Especially when you’re nervous. Don’t sweat it. That’s why they invented showers. You just clean up and try again. But you gotta prep. Take a warm bath, flush yourself out. Then, when you’re with him, let him lick your hole, get a lubed finger in there, and just… enjoy the ride.”
“So… Umm… when was your first time? Was it any good?” Peter asked, feeling a heck of a lot bolder now.
“Dude!? You were there the night I arrived on the Island. You were hanging with the big guys, watching us do it! That was my first time getting and giving ass!”
“Huh? Really?” Peter asked, stunned.
“Really, really! I would not lie to you about that, Cuz. Now, one last thing, Peter… Dude, whatever happens happens. You can keep it to yourself or tell someone about it. Just enjoy it, don’t force it.”
Chris snuggled the boy close and gave him a firm, affectionate kiss on the lips. He reached down and gave him a tight, grounding hug.
“Cuz, can you help me move the mattress from the cabin next door to this place? I promised Wyatt a dick pic and an early night.”
Peter let out a breathy laugh, his tension finally breaking. “Hmm? Yeah. I might make one for Jessie as well.”
“If you do, make sure you delete it afterward. You don’t want your Mom or Dad finding that on your phone, do you?” Chris warned, his protective streak flaring. “Umm… do you want me to talk to Jessie on your behalf? I’ll warn him to take it slow, or I’ll crush his nuts.”
“Don’t do that, Chris. I like his nuts exactly the way they are,” Peter countered with a shy grin. “But, sure. Talk to him before I do. Thanks, man.”
“But Chris, there is something else. Don’t be mad at me — But can you take those leather clothes back? They keep reminding me of the… those nasty… those mean men who tried —”
The young man could not get the words out, but Christopher understood. Peter liked the look of the brutal leather biker guys, but they were a bit more than he could chew. They attempted to take him in the campground shower block at the beginning of April.
Chris and his friends took the gear as they ran them off the Island and divided the loot amongst themselves.
“Sure thing, buddy,” Chris said disapointedly as he took a garbage bag filled with a jacket, vest, and jeans. “Your call. I guess that’s more my thing than yours, right?”
“It’s not that, Chris. I do like the leather look on you. And they fit me remarkably well. They are just too… too black. I think brown is more my color…” Peter said shyly.
“Well, leather is expensive, so it’s best to save up for something else. I’d love to take you shopping, though. You can certainly pull off the look.”
Christopher gave his young friend another hug and sent him on his way.
• Dear Diary: Tuesday, June 3rd, Coming out.
I’ve set my plans in motion and discussed them with Wyatt. He was a little hacked off at me at first. I should’ve explained my reasons for wanting to talk to Jelmer and Tomas more clearly, but he understands now.
I’ve been to the municipality, officially set my address to Ben and Frida’s, and filled out a dozen character references at City Hall. Even talked to Silvia — no, wait — I complained to the Mayor about Dick Burk and his empty threats. She said she’d take care of it. I hope it’s before the final inspection, or I fear the worst. You know how these politicians work.
I got a massive earful from Mom when I called about staying on the Island. She yelled and screamed at me for ‘throwing my future away.’ My future is here on the Island. The Technical College can wait a year or two. Or better yet, I’ve got to live my life, not the one she wants me to have. And… the phone line nearly melted when I explained that I’m Gay.
Days earlier, some guy from the local builders had suggested that a derelict yacht mast would make the perfect flagpole, rather than buying one from the mainland. Chris got permission to salvage the stuff he could use. And slowly, the pieces of the puzzle were finally clicking together.
As they stood watching a crane lifting the forty-two-foot mast, Uncle Burt nudged him. “You’re serious about staying, aren’t you, Chris? Because I know an abandoned house on the edge of town. A ‘fixer-upper.’ It needs a man with your — well, your specific talent for erections.” His Uncle smirked and bumped the nineteen-year-old. Excepting Chris for who he wanted to be.
Chris couldn’t rein in the thrill. He let out a low, sibilant sigh, his thumb grazing the butch niobium ring in his ear. He looked out over the dunes, already imagining the work — and the men — he’d be bringing into that house without his siblings’ toxic taunts. For once, he felt free and in control of his own destiny.
• Continued in chapter 15 •
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© StrykerJ - April 2026
