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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 15
• A verbal quicky does wonders.
As Christopher walked back from the yacht harbor to the campground via Tower Street, he heard that familiar, drawling sneer.
“Hey, da Boar. Shouldn’t you be out fuckin’ arse, you dirty queer?”
It was Noah Burk and two of his Sunday-school shadows, strutting the town’s main strip as if they owned the street. They closed ranks, forcing Chris de Boer to a dead stop right outside ‘The Pot & Kettle.’ The noise from the terrace died instantly as tourists and staff turned to watch the scene unfold with bated breath.
“Who blacked your eyes, da Boar? I want to send them a gift card,” Noah childishly taunted.
“Can you afford that, da’Burk, now that ‘your daddy’ has been caught gambling your tuition money away?” Chris asked slyly.
“What did you just call me, faggot?” Noah bellowed, the sound echoing off the pub’s brickwork. He didn’t try to deny the gambling issues; the truth was already a bruise he couldn’t hide.
“Everyone has their trigger points,” Chris thought with a wry grin.
“Sorry? I didn’t call you a faggot. You did that yourself. However, that convertible pimp wagon you drive does make you look —”
The laughter erupting from the pub’s terrace turned into shocked gasps when Noah swung wide. He aimed for Chris’s face but missed by a long shot. The muscular nineteen-year-old took a fluid step back, and Noah’s fist connected squarely with the sycophant next to him.
After a loud crunch, blood sprayed everywhere. Noah Burk had hit the dude and broken the man’s nose and — by the sound of it — half the bones in his own hand. What followed was an earsplitting howl that sounded like wolves had just returned to the Island. When the guy on Noah’s other side started berating him, Noah tried to lunge, kneed him in the balls, and overbalanced. There they lay in the middle of Tower Street, whimpering and moaning like devout Christian homosexuals after a rowdy gang bang with their priest.
The bouncer from ‘The Pot & Kettle’ stepped forward, handing Christopher a tall mug of ice-cold 0.0% beer on the house as the hilarity from the onlookers rose to a crescendo.
“Cheers,” Chris called out to the crowd, downing the brew in one go. The iced drink was a welcome relief in the early summer heatwave that had hit the Island, even with the breeze brushing his flushed face.
“Three against zero ain’t fair!” one of the Islanders on an early lunch break called out in glee, “… Chris didn’t even touch them!”
It was true. But Christopher also knew this might cost him dearly later on. He could already envision the senior council member slash building inspector, Dick Albertus Burk, stomping up the dunes with the police in tow. He thanked the bouncer and went on his way, the adrenaline still humming happily under his skin.
He’d spent the last five days turning his vision into a reality. Chris already scored heaps of gravel and crushed shells from the Island’s Road Department and dug out the long, winding path from the main entrance all the way down to the lower terrace.
Chris had come up with a clever way to pave the maintenance track using a home-made dry concrete mix — once he watered it in, he’d top the surface with a slurry of crushed seashells. It would look exactly like the iconic bike paths, but without the sandy potholes. It wasn’t as heavy-duty as a main road, but it was plenty sturdy for light traffic and a heck of a lot cheaper.
Chris had just finished the deep foundations for the massive aluminum flagpole and was bricking the sides of the accessibility ramp when the inevitable happened. Councilor Burk came stomping up the very stairs he’d condemned, breathing like a wounded bull. He nearly wiped out on the railway sleepers, his fancy, highly polished wingtip Brogues skidding through wet concrete as he lunged toward Chris.
Seeing the red paver bricks Chris had used to line the path, Burk practically saw red himself, steam billowing from under his combover. He’d tried this power play before, nitpicking the color of the materials, but Chris just gave him a happy, knowing smile. Picking the brick color wasn’t the building inspector’s job — and they both knew it.
The fallout was heavy. Burt went into a frenzy, screaming about the ‘attempted murder of his son’ and the ‘abuse of Islander traditions.’ He spat out a stream of discriminatory slurs until the air turned sour. He only stopped when Great Uncle Ben arrived with a squad of West’s finest in tow. After the police heard the raving and saw the videos of the Tower Street incident, they didn’t hesitate.
Councilor Dick Burk was officially trespassed from the campgrounds and hauled away in handcuffs. The man didn’t just have a screw loose — he actually became combative toward Ben and Chris, right in front of the officers and the Japanese visitors. The stalking ‘inspector’ was finally headed for a much-needed timeout.
“You sure know how to pick ’em,” Uncle Ben joked, watching the crowd of curious foreign guests. The Japanese tourists had clearly enjoyed the showdown in their own way. Using a mix of rusty Japanese, English, and crude hand gestures, Chris had warned them about the construction. Still, the group became his unofficial crew.
He’d had a marvelous time showing the polite travelers around the Island in his ‘spare minutes,’ stepping in whenever the local tourist board fell short. In exchange for the tours, a few of the dainty female artisans offered to paint murals in the lower cabins, while the men were more than happy to help line the paths. The work ethic of these people was amazing, and the job was progressing fast. Even his Japanese improved in leaps and bounds. The musician really spoke his languages.
He kept telling the guests they didn’t have to work, but there was no stopping them — they weren’t the type to just lounge in the sun. To settle the score, Wyatt, Okko, and Pierce had taken the group on a horse-drawn cart tour of the West End of the Island. With Wyatt riding at his side, Chris had ended the afternoon singing sea shanties with the guests at ‘The Whaler,’ his voice echoing through the balmy summer air.
After that morning’s commotion, Chris sat on the edge of the flagpole-pit, behind the tops of the lower barracks, and he wrote:
• Diary: Friday, June 5th - Truth will out.
I’m not sure where our ‘building inspector’ turned council member gets the nerve, but the man has some serious, unresolved issues. He tried to read me the riot act today, even though I’ve followed every goddamn rule in the book.
Maybe I shouldn’t have played the middle-schooler and caved to Noah’s pathetic taunts earlier… but honestly? No regrets. What we need now is a solid, fortress-style fence — something Burk can’t just bypass — while I rip out those rickety stairs to town and extend the accessibility path down the hill. Thank god the rest of the municipality doesn’t run on Burk’s warped rulebook.
I’m starting to suspect he’s deep in Pastor Simons’s pocket. Our ‘beloved father’ has been sniffing around Ben, Frida, and Sofia, claiming I’m a ‘bad influence’ on the Island. A bad influence on his twisted, prehistoric sensibilities, more like. If they want a fight, I’ll give them one they can’t win. Love is Love, ain’t that the truth?
Chris looked up as the air brakes on a massive dump truck hissed, sending a spray of disturbed sand flying through the air. It was Wyatt, arriving with the first load of homemade dry-mix. Concrete with a gritty blend of rock, local sand, and crushed seashells.
Wyatt jumped out of the cab, his muscles rippling as he hauled his buddy out of the flagpole pit. As they fell into a deep hug and a bruising kiss, Pastor Simons came stalking up the dune, his face a mask of righteous fury. The Reverend must have heard about the incident with Dick Albertus Burk.
“Stop that at once!” the man yelled at the top of his lungs, the words almost catching behind his stiff clerical collar. The local police had clearly left the chain-link fence wide open in their haste to haul Burk away.
“Yeah — we should probably stop, you know,” Chris murmured against Wyatt’s lips. Wyatt’s eyebrows flared upward, disappearing into his long, blond, wavy hair in surprise.
“Quickie — at my place?” Chris sniggered. They practically tumbled down the unfinished accessibility path, vaulting over the low wall to dodge the approaching Pastor Simons. The two of them ran inside like sneaky teenagers playing hide-and-seek from the Reverend, their hearts hammering with a mix of adrenaline and pure, unadulterated lust.
The underfloor electric heating had already been laid in Cabin number 1, covered with a self-leveling compound, and finished with a colored epoxy coating that perfectly matched the refurbished cabin’s vibe. This was Chris’s bed and breakfast — the first of the twenty-four cabins he’d finished just a few days ago.
“Welcome to Casa de Boer, Mister Teller. Let’s fuck! It’s been too long, stud!” Chris threw the words out just loud enough for the Pastor to hear, before slamming the door, locking it, and drawing the curtains tight.
Wyatt had an almighty, dirty grin on his face as he grabbed his lover around the waist, pulling him close to take in the look and feel of the finished product.
Cabin number 1 smelled of fresh paint and cool air, with the air conditioner humming against the June heat.
“Oh fuck, Chris. I could live here and grow old with you!” The words were out before Wyatt even realized he’d spoken them. He tensed, his grip tightening. “Shit — sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, bro.” He feared he’d hit a trigger point.
“Ha, shut up, Teller. Sure you did,” Chris laughed, his eyes bright with an unshielded, happy honesty. “And you know what?…”
“What?” Wyatt asked, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a mix of vulnerability and desire.
“I, too, could live with you here. And grow old on the Island together,” Chris promised. He didn’t just say it — he owned it, the weight of the confession anchoring them both to the floor he’d built with his own two hands.
Christopher knew he had to take control of the situation. He could see Wyatt recoil as the words bounced through his brain. He slid his hand through the long, wavy surfer locks and let their lips do the talking.
It had been a while since the two made out. But — like riding a bicycle — both men remembered how to dance the horizontal tango. Clothes fell, and hands stroked. Tongues slathered as dicks grew.
The stocky jock planted his hands on a leather-covered blanket chest. It stood beside the strengthened columns clad with soundproof panels that divided the open-plan bedrooms from the living area. Arching his back, Chris offered his naked ass to the surfer dude, his heart hammering against his ribs. Wyatt sank to his knees, his tongue working with a predatory focus as he rimmed that sweet pink starfish open. Meanwhile, he smacked those tight, muscular buttocks he loved so much.
Chris gasped, a low groan vibrating in his throat as the invasion went deeper. He lived for this part of making out — the agonizing anticipation of the penetration. He craved the heat of his lover entering with a little force and the gritty verbal threats Wyatt always laced into their coupling. In this moment, Chris was in his happy place. The worries of the morning and the demands of the site were gone. He was ready, and Wyatt knew it.
Wyatt stood, spat into his palm, and slicked up all ten inches of his narrow length. With one long, merciless push, he slammed forward, sliding home. Despite knowing the impact was coming, Chris groaned out a ragged, “Holy fuck, Reverant. Blessed be thy length. Ouch, Ooh… yeah man. Take that hole. Cunt… fill that cunt, man. Fuck yeah!”
“Who are you calling a Cunt, Bitch? Take me like a man, and stop your moaning, Chrissy!?” Wyatt laughed, his voice a gravelly growl as he began to pump that tight pussy in rough, ass-slapping thrusts.
Wyatt showed Chris every corner of the holiday cabin — from the bedrooms to the kitchen, the dining table to the cool leather couch. He never let up the tempo, and it certainly wasn’t the ‘quickie’ they had embarked on. By the time they were done, the new cabin felt thoroughly blessed and christened.
Finally, Chris dragged Wyatt into the tiny shower in the back, where he ‘scrubbed Wyatt’s rear’ with his own eight-and-a-half-inch loofah. The shower in Cabin One was a masterpiece of design; he’d moved the toilet to the front, where the side entrance used to be, to maximize the space. “Now this is glamping,” Chris thought, watching the thick globs of cum swirl down the drain. “These bunkers aren’t a hotel suite, but in this configuration they’ve got all the amenities a man could need.”
As the men toweled dry and slipped on some shorts, the hum of the air-con filled their senses again. Chris set the table for two. It was a lovers’ replenishing feast: a bowl of half a dozen hard-boiled eggs, thick slices of toast slathered in Aunt Frida’s golden apricot jam, and a glass bottle of Islander milk, still beaded with cold condensation from the fridge. The cabin filled with one of Wessel’s love songs as they sat down to eat.
Wyatt cracked an egg against the wooden table, the sound sharp in the quiet cabin. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was until we stopped. That was fun. We should do that more often, Chris,” he murmured, his eyes tracking a bead of sweat running down Chris’s naked chest.
Chris didn’t answer right away. He grabbed a few refreshing cucumber slices and spread the jam on his golden toast. “Homemade tastes so much better than the factory stuff from the supermarket, don’t you think, Wytze?” Calling Wyatt by his government name felt odd, but right.
Wyatt squinted. Was he hearing that correctly? Was Chris being serious?
Instead of taking a bite, Chris reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled scrap of paper, smoothing it out on the table next to the butter dish. “It has the address of a house my Uncle Ben suggested we look at.”
Wyatt’s eyebrows flew upward. Chris had actually said ‘we.’
“Apparently, it’s a fixer-upper, but I know how to do that,” Chris continued, his voice steady. “Want to take a look later? I haven’t been yet. I wanted to get the paths outside finished first.”
“Oh, Christopher. I’d love to. How exciting.”
Right at that moment, someone knocked on the glass door. Still clad in nothing but his trunks, Chris opened the curtain a smidge while Wyatt ducked into the bathroom. It was Jessie, calling out to see where the young builder had disappeared to. The dump truck was still blocking the path behind the bunkers, and campers had already started trickling down the unblocked stairs into town.
When Jessie entered, Chris smirked, casually clearing the dirty dishes. “Am I interrupting something?” Jessie asked, eyes darting around.
“Nope, you’re just the guy that I wanted to see, actually. Peter spoke to me about his upcoming birthday.”
“Aww, did he spill the beans? I’m gifting him my old moped. That should make it easier for him to get to school on the mainland after the summer holiday.”
“Cool, I could get him a sturdy jacket. Something in a vintage brown cowhide. Maybe an A-2 style bomber with a supple leather collar? Something that’ll protect against the wind on that moped.” Chris paused for a moment. Somehow, the black leather stuff they took at the beginning of his holiday never seemed to sit right with Peter. The stuff came from the bikers who were about to abuse the dude. The boy had hesitantly handed it back to clear his conscience.
“Not really what I wanted to talk about, but great to hear. He’s nervous as heck about his first time, Jes. I’ve had a word with him, but just… take it slow. If Peet shows any sign of —”
“Don’t worry about it, Cuz. I’ll take it step by step and show him a good time. I like him. I don’t want to scare him away.”
“Ah… good to hear. But, ask JT or Jelmer to pick him up some pharmaceutical supplies and anal toys on the mainland, though. And make sure you’re both on the same page, reading the same book. Communication is key, I’d say.”
“Yes, Boss. Anyway, can you ask the driver of that dump truck to move it? Our Japanese guests got stuck behind it. Where is the stallion, anyway?” Jessie asked.
“I’m over here, jacking off in the toilet! Wanna come help, Jes?” Wyatt called out from the bathroom.
“Oh, and Chris,” Jessie added, his voice dropping, “I overheard your Gran talking to mine. Apparently, your mother is coming to the Island to take you home.”
“Ahh, yes. That would complicate matters. I guess I should not have told her I am turning gay,” Chris replied. “But I’d like to see her try. I’m already registered at City Hall.”
“Your Mom thought so, too. She’s bringing your uncles and your brothers to ‘convince’ you, Chris!”
“Ha. I guess I need to hire a bodyguard. Oh, well. She ain’t going to stop me,” Chris said, injecting a bravado into his voice that he wasn’t entirely feeling anymore. The unwelcome news hit him like a physical shock.
As Wyatt strolled back into the room, he pulled Chris into a hug. The fact that Jessie was caught right between the two of them didn’t seem to bother Wyatt in the slightest.
“Guess I really need to build that fence along Back Road — one made out of plywood without a door. One Burk or Simons can’t circumnavigate that easily,” Chris muttered. “Okay, let me get dressed. There’s work to be done!”
Wyatt unloaded the haul of dry concrete-mix on the lower terraces while Chris spread it along the walkways. The borrowed motorized wheelbarrows were a godsend, and the wacker plate leveled the paths perfectly, just below the top of the mortared red-brick edging. Chris was glad he’d masked the bricks with a rubber compound; it would prevent the concrete dust from staining his handiwork. He spent the rest of the afternoon watering the mix in and leveling the hardening mud. By evening, he had a sturdy, reliable base to build from.
However, his mind was already churning, planning the demolition of the rotting, uneven stairway down to town. In its place, he envisioned a tiered switchback path. By cutting gentle hairpin curves into the face of the steep dune, he could turn a treacherous climb into an easy stroll. As a finishing touch, he pictured a central masonry staircase, cutting straight through the middle of the tight zig-zags.
It would take weeks to build, but Christopher knew that first impressions were everything for the tourists. It would require some retaining walls to anchor the path on the steep dune, and the work was bound to kick up a storm of sand. All he needed now was the green light from the local Road Department to install a dustproof fence — anything to keep the neighbors across the narrow Back Road happy.
Chris had a blast that afternoon. For the first time in a while, he was totally on his own. With Burk and Pastor Simons finally out of his hair, there were no interruptions, no pointed questions, and no judgmental stares. He’d spent the day lost in his music, singing at the top of his lungs and even dancing as he worked on the paths.
When he finally headed inside to fix dinner, he found his phone blinking with several missed messages. One was a video Jelmer had snuck of him earlier — dancing like a fool while he worked. Christopher couldn’t help but smile; it was ridiculous, but it was proof he’d been alive. Despite the rotten start to the morning, he’d thoroughly enjoyed his day.
And, well, his mother he could deal with later. She was never going to be happy with his life choices, no matter what Chris decided to do.
With several irons already in the fire, Chris decided to take a scouting trip to the address on that scrap of paper: Bathway 78. It was a bit of a trek, tucked deep into the pine forest behind the main town and well off the beaten path. But his new electric all-terrain bicycle made short work of the distance, eating up the outskirts around West in no time.
What he found upon arrival came as no real surprise. The place was in desperate need of some serious love. It was completely overgrown, the windows were soft with rot, and the roof tiles were slipping. Paint peeled from every surface like sunburned skin. One of the outbuildings had entirely collapsed, and the brickwork on the main house was crying out for re-pointing and a deep clean.
But despite the decay, Chris fell in love instantly. He could see past the grime to the bones of a beautiful three-bedroom family home, complete with a double garage and a sprawling garden. It even had a large pool — though at the moment, it was nothing more than a green, smelly bog. It had potential; it had soul.
No, the total shock didn’t come from the state of the house. The real jaw-dropper came when he found the name of the couple who used to live there. He had met them on the ferry a while back. The Millers had given Christopher a thousand-euro check for the Islander Youth Fund. This was meant to be. With his heart aflutter, Christopher cycled back into town. The beams of the lighthouse guided him like a ship at sea.
• Continued in chapter 16 •
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© StrykerJ - April 2026
