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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 16
• A foredrawn conclusion: Time to burn the bridges to the past.
Christopher was too excited to sleep. He pored over several dozen photos he’d taken of the exterior of his potential new home. Nothing was set in stone yet, but he had already started writing an initial assessment of the work required to make Bathway 78 habitable again. He stifled a heavy yawn as he realized the daunting cost of it all. Until that moment, he hadn’t fully considered the financial implications. A big house in a secluded location like that would cost a fortune, and the renovations — even if he did all the labor himself — would surely triple that amount.
“One step forward, two steps back,” Chris thought. “But if you don’t shoot, you don’t score. Let’s not get your hopes up too soon, though, Crissy. To bed, and early to rise. Tomorrow is a new day.”
He felt a bit downheartened as he caught his reflection in the mirror while brushing his teeth. In the end, he was glad Wyatt hadn’t gone with him; the lifeguard stud had chores to do back at the farmstead, and Chris didn’t want to get their hopes up prematurely anyway.
Just before turning in for the night, he shot Wyatt a couple of photos of the place with the text: “It has potential by the bucketful, but might be a bit out of my price range. Sleep well, talk tomorrow, stud.”
Wyatt replied instantly, as if he had been staring at the phone waiting to hear from him: “Hey, Colt. Looks like a dump, but try contacting the old owners. ‘Even a blind squirrel finds a nut every once in a while.’ Sleep tight, don’t let the sand bugs bite. Love you, Chris. Dream about something nasty.”
Chris hooked his phone to the charger, and lay it face down on the bedside table. He needed a good night’s sleep, but his mind wouldn’t quiet. He sat up on his bed, took out his notebook, and scribbled:
• Dear Diary, Sunday June 6th, midnight — MILLER?
I’ve looked at a potential home. Big place, just out of town in the woods across from the public swimming pool. Probably too expensive for a guy like me, but it has potential. So much so that I kept thinking I knew the place. It pulled me in. As if I was destined to live there! Creepy, really.
Three bedrooms, double garage, large garden, and a fucking huge swimming pool in the middle of the forest. Skinny dip, anyone? No, it was the name on the letterbox that really freaked me out. Robert and Patricia Miller.
When I was very young, I heard Mom and Dad fight about a Sarah Miller. Right at the time when I got into a fight with my ‘dearest’ brother, Caesar, about me being adopted. It got nasty. He smashed my first guitar, the bastard. Dad had bought it for me in Marrakesh for my seventh birthday. I liked that thing. I never got along with the High-Cs — Casper, Cinthia, and Caesar, did I? Was this why? Mom likes them more than Leeroy and me, though. She always has. And well, her will is law in their house! They’d need an army to drag me back there again.
But that name ‘Miller’ means something, I just don’t know what! Heck, that was the name on the 1000-euro check they gave me on the ferry. Come to think of it, when Pake and Beppe Miller gave me the money for the Youth Fund, they looked into my soul as if they were paying off an ancient debt. What was going on there? I’d have to look into it on Monday.
Christopher had not set his alarm and could not rouse his weary soul from bed that Sunday. That is, until someone urgently rattled the terrace door of his cabin.
“Chris, aren’t you awake yet?” Jessie shouted, hammering on the glass. “Check your phone, Cuz!”
The voice cut right through Chris’s brain as he sat bolt upright in bed. He’d overslept. The early car ferry had already arrived, and he’d promised to help Jessie with the Sunday check-ins.
But, as he scrambled for his phone, he realized that wasn’t the issue. He had several messages from his extended Islander family warning of impending doom. His ‘dearest’ mother, Charlotte, had arrived to take him home, and she hadn’t come alone. She’d brought backup: Uncle Piet — the family’s resident bigot — her brother, Uncle Henk, and, for good measure, his older brothers, Casper and the thirty-one-year-old ‘golden boy’ Caesar.
They had marched straight to Sofia’s, intending to commandeer the guest rooms as if she owed them something. They’d tried to barge in, presuming on kin, but Aunt Diana had been one step ahead. She’d called Grandma the moment she saw them on the gangplank, and Sofia had locked the doors tight against Charlotte and her group.
It didn’t stop there. Aunt Petra’s B&B, the North Sea Hotel, and even the distant relatives had shuttered their windows. The extended family had closed ranks to protect their newest Islander son. They didn’t give a damn about Chris’s ‘preferences.’ To them, the only thing that counted was the boy’s helpful and engaging nature.
Enraged and homeless, the intervention brigade had piled back into their car and sped toward Ben and Frida’s, demanding to know where Christopher was hiding. They were coming to put a stop to this ‘unruly queer behavior’ of the ‘little runt of the family.’ Over a decade, it was they who had spent taunting him to his face with those exact insults.
At every family gathering, Uncle Piet had made a spectacle of leading the de Boers in their favorite pastime: ‘Chrissy bashing.’ Chris had spent years dating girls just to satisfy them. Though he hadn’t given them the satisfaction by taking his girlfriends home. Chris was desperately trying to blend into a household where he was the last to enter and the first to be blamed. Their behavior had always been calculated and cruel. After all, how the hell could he help it if he wasn’t as tall as the rest of them?
Chris packed his essentials with a focused, frantic energy. He didn’t reach for his work shorts this time. Instead, he pulled on the kinky leather pants — the ones with the zip running from front to back — and paired them with a clean white shirt and his scuffed denim jacket. He slid Okko’s borrowed sunglasses onto his face, the dark lenses masking the lack of sleep in his eyes.
It was a butch look, a suit of armor against the ‘intervention’ waiting at the campground. It was a version of Christopher his mainland family had never seen — one he hoped would grant him the extra bit of obscurity he needed to slip past them. He stuffed his weekend bag with the bare essentials.
His cabin didn’t look any different from the rest. He hoped that would send the ‘biological’ family on a wild goose chase. Chris drew the curtains and locked the door before quietly hopping on his new electric mountain bike. He wasn’t just riding; he paddled toward a hard-won freedom.
He wasn’t fleeing, not exactly. He chose his battlefield. He’d lie low at Wyatt’s place until the initial heat died down, letting the Island’s natural defenses do the heavy lifting for him. All the commotion over him finally finding love was ridiculous. At nineteen, Christopher felt he’d earned the right to choose his own path.
Chris had done his time and tried it their way — the dates with girls, the suffocating hours spent alone with his music, and the relentless, jagged taunts. But nothing he did was ever enough for his mother’s side of the de Boers. You can’t pick your family, but if he’d had the choice, he wouldn’t have picked them. That much was clear.
He took the high ridge path through the dunes. The tires of the e-bike hummed over the packed seashells as he bypassed the main road. Below, he caught a glimpse of a familiar car — likely Uncle Piet’s — lumbering toward Ben and Frida’s. Chris didn’t even slow down. He felt the warm air hit his face and leaned into the wind, the butch leather pants creaking against the saddle.
Within thirty minutes, the white fences of the Teller Stud Farm rose out of the pastures to the east like a sanctuary. Thunder ran alongside as Chris skidded to a halt near the stables. He walked back to the beautiful Haflinger stallion and gave the beast some love. The family dog, a golden lab called Daisy, saw the two play and wanted in on the action. Chris smiled down at her and picked up a stick to throw. Daisy took off, and Christopher followed.
The cool young stud knocked on the kitchen door and called out a sharp, “Folk!” to announce his arrival. He found Maren holding down the fort.
“Hey, Chris! Hadn’t expected you this Sunday. Come on in, sweetums. Fuck, you look cool!” Maren said with a playful glint in her eye that Chris couldn’t quite decipher.
He took in the sight, momentarily stunned. The youngest Teller sister was dressed in a full traditional Islander costume, her long hair pinned into a tight, severe knot under a delicate lace bunnet. The contrast made Chris smile; as modern and rebellious as he looked in his leather and denim, Maren appeared ancient. Even though she was just a year younger than Christopher. She was a historical black-and-white photograph come to life in vibrant, breathing color.
“Sorry, you’ve missed Wyatt. He got called out to a lifeboat rescue. I’ve just come home from a folk-dancing demonstration myself,” Maren said, leaning against the heavy oak table. “He’ll be back shortly, I expect. You’ll have to make do with me for now, Chris.”
“Not a problem, hon. Is it okay if I lie low? My Mom has come to the Island to ‘take me home.’ As if that would ever stop me loving Wyatt…” Chris sighed, but his thought was cut short. Maren mirrored his despair.
His phone bleeped — a video from Jelmer. He watched, stomach churning, as Great Uncle Ben stood his ground in a shouting match against his Mom, Charlotte, and Henk Mulder. But where were the other three shadows?
However, before he could process the fury, another notification chimed. It was Jessie. He sent a second video. Maren sat side-saddle on Chris’s leather-clad leg as they watched the new footage unfold. Jessie was filming from a distance as he watched Casper break the windows of Cabin number 1. Caesar entered and came running out moments later. An orange glow lit his silhouette. He hadn’t found Christopher, so he set his tool chest alight.
“Are they for real!?” Christopher thought in pure horror.
“Shit, my guitar… my tools… my clothes!” Chris screamed. On the screen, the fire department and the police were already moving in, rounding up his brothers and Uncle Piet de Boer in the harsh glare of the emergency lights.
“Oh, baby —” Maren cried, wrapping him in a bone-crushing hug. “You’re safe with me.”
As she said it, Maren tilted her head, planted her lips firmly on his, and pulled him close. Chris went still, his mind reeling. He wasn’t just in shock from the violence occurring in West; he was spiraling because he was making out with Wyatt’s younger sister. And despite the chaos, he liked the taste of her lips, the weight of her voluptuous bosom against his chest, and the scent of old-world lace and sun-warmed skin.
Maren hitched up the thick, traditional black apron she was wearing. Her historic wool skirt, petticoat, and underskirt followed in a rustle of starched fabric. Before Chris could even process the shift from horror to heat, his dominant left hand was stroking the neatly manicured Venus mound of this Islander Famke. Maren had dispensed with underwear entirely, and her naked pussy was already slick and welcoming.
“It’s been a while since I had a man in there. I usually make do with my girlfriend’s strap-on,” Maren grunted hotly into Chris’s ear, her breath hitching. “Go on, soan… finger Famke deep. I want your rock-star —” She cut herself off mid-sentence, her head falling back as Chris went to work.
He expertly navigated the swollen lips and found her clit with practiced ease. His well-trained fingers straddled the entrance while his thumb rhythmically teased her clitoris. Maren realized instantly that this ‘gay guy’ had more than enough experience with women, and she was milking the opportunity for everything it was worth.
Chris dipped two fingers into the honey pot, finding her G-spot and strumming it with a steady, punishing rhythm. Faster and deeper he went, his leather pants creaking against the kitchen chair. As their tongues intertwined and their breathing turned into ragged gasps, Maren spiraled toward her point of no return.
To Chris’s stunned surprise, Maren suddenly pulled back, pushing his playful hand away from her wet crotch. She let out a deep, shaky sigh and took his face in both hands, her traditional lace bunnet slightly askew.
“Let’s go to the haystack,” she whispered, her voice thick. “I don’t want Dad or Wyatt walking in on us here. Oh, go on, Chris. I want you to do me. Do me good.”
When Chris looked bemusedly at the ‘mare in heat,’ she added a blunt truth: “Look… I’m gay, too. But every now and then, I need a real man. I never liked sperm very much, so put on a ‘party hat’ and let’s have some fun in the loft. And don’t hold back on me, Chris… I want your rock-star drumstick to do some… umm?… damage.”
“Damage? Why?” Chris asked. He was horny as fuck at the rude, forward proposition, but genuinely puzzled by her choice of words.
“Man, I’m new to the game, too,” Maren said, pulling him toward the back door. “But I want something to compare my girlfriends against. I think you know the feeling, right? Now stop bucking and follow me, stallion. Keep those kinky leather pants on — you look so fucking cool, you could almost turn me straight.”
Chris pulled off his denim jacket and laid it in a dip in the center of the haystack. His white shirt followed as he flashed a sneaky grin. Maren kneeled on the coat as she looked up at Christopher with her bright green expectant eyes. He was going to score big this Sunday morning. He had never screwed a woman outdoors, but the raw, primal nature of the setting had his blood pumping at full capacity.
His leather pants were straining as he took charge. “Lick those fucking leathers, mare. Worship the drumstick and get me hard,” he ordered. Not that he needed the help; his pulse was already thundering. He reached out, removing the bobby pins from her lace bunnet to let her long, wavy mane unfurl. Maren leaned in, sniffing and licking the straining bulge through the leather, looking up at him with a hunger that was half-wonder, half-demand.
“Shit, mare. I’m going to take every hole you’ve got. Cunt, ass, and mouth,” Chris growled brutally. “Now, unzip me and swallow me deep. Get me nice and wet.”
Maren looked up with a flash of hesitation — she’d never enjoyed blowing guys, preferring the taste of pussy — but Chris saw the reluctance and solved it. He reached into his pocket and handed her a chocolate-flavored ‘party hat.’
Chris reached for the zip, opening the leathers from back to front and letting his goody bag swing free in the hay-scented breeze. Maren watched, mesmerized, as the nearly nine-inch drumstick bounced into the light. Chris bunched her hair in one fist, guiding her closer until the pulsing tip of his erect manhood brushed her cheek, her lips, and her nose.
“Go on, Maren. Take the reins. Give the shaft a good lick. Yeah… the balls, too. You’re doing it right, Sis… Now, put that condom in your mouth and unroll it with your lips.”
By the time the latex raincoat was stretched to its full length, Maren had given him the performance of a lifetime. Despite her initial reluctance, she was a natural. Chris was hard, wet, and rearing to go. He bent forward, tasting the chocolate on her lips before pushing the Islander Famke rudely onto her back. He mounted her without hesitation, driving home and giving her the rhythmic, multiple orgasms she deserved.
Just as he was taking her from behind, the ladder creaked. Someone was climbing up the haystack. Chris tensed, but relief washed over him when he saw Wyatt’s dirty-blond head appear, a nasty, knowing smirk playing on his lips. Wyatt didn’t say a word; he simply shed his pants on the way up and joined them, turning the duo into a threesome that knew no bounds.
Chris felt the familiar, heavy weight of the man he loved behind him. As Wyatt drove into him, Chris pushed deeper into Maren, stretching her anal passage further, the condom straining at its limit as the three of them became a sweaty, pulsing mass of Islander defiance.
A quarter of an hour — or perhaps it was an eternity and several orgasms later — the heat in the loft finally began to break. Maren watched with a satisfied grin as Chris slipped out, removing the filled ‘spunk bag’ and handing it to Wyatt. The nasty lifeguard didn’t hesitate; he flipped the latex upside down and swallowed the chocolate-flavored protein shake with relish, his eyes never leaving Chris’s.
The dirty gesture sent a fresh jolt of electricity through Christopher. He pushed Wyatt over his sister’s legs, mounting his man raw and plowing into him with renewed ferocity. He watched, breathless, as Maren pinned her hunk of a brother to her heaving chest, their bodies a singular, well-lubed machine. The rhythmic grunts, the wet slaps of skin, and their heavy, synchronized breathing sounded like the only music that mattered.
With his guts full of cum, Chris dove between Maren’s legs. She let the skirts fall over his head as he ate her out. Plugging two fingers in her anal passage as his tongue did things to this horny 18-year-old lesbian, neither she nor he had ever experienced quite like this. Chris just imagined he was rimming ass, while Maren dreamed she was smothering one of her girlfriends. Chris gave her an unprecedented, earth-shattering orgasm, feeling her squirt over his tongue and into his mouth.
Exhausted but profoundly pleased, the three lay tangled together in the straw, Chris anchored in the middle. The distant whinny of a Haflinger stallion broke the silence — an alarm call announcing Otto Teller’s return to the farmstead. Maren, ever the Islander, was the first to move. She kissed both men, smoothed her skirts, and jumped down from the haystack with practiced grace.
“How was that, Colt?” Wyatt asked, his voice a low, gravelly rasp as he watched his sister disappear toward the house.
“Maren is hot, but I still prefer your ass, Wyatt. I guess I am gay after all,” Chris smirked, rolling himself onto his lover’s chest. “But she’s quite the catch. I’m almost sorry to hear no Islander boy will ever experience what I just did.”
He put his weary head down, listening to the frantic, subsiding rhythm of Wyatt’s heart. The world outside was a mess — his cabin was likely ruined, his brothers presumably in custody, and his mother was probably screaming at a locked door. But here, in the prickling hay loft with Wyatt, he finally felt loved. He couldn’t care less about the damage or the toxic debris of his so-called family. Right then and there, Chris decided to burn his bridges and prepared to start over.
“I am gay, and that’s okay. No matter what the others say — I am a poet, and I know it!” Chris thought, a defiant glint in his eyes that only the tall Dutch hunky surfer dude below him could see. Although those thoughts were immediately followed by the worst kind of self-doubt.
His turning gay had caused so many issues already. Was it really worth it? Daring to admit those feelings to himself brought a wave of guilt so sharp it nearly stung. Thinking about his smoking cabin, he guiltily thought of Great Uncle Ben and Frida. He wasn’t just testing the waters anymore; he was causing the waves.
“I fuckin’ love you, Christopher Patrick de Boer,” Wyatt whispered, reassuringly. His hand lay heavy and protective on the back of Chris’s neck. He paused, looking at the horny twink resting on his chest, “… But why are you here, Chris?” he asked, somewhat perplexed.
“Oh, yeah, right. I guess you haven’t heard yet. My Mom came to the Island to hold an intervention of sorts. Trying to talk me out of living here and, worst of all, prevent me from turning gay. My brothers took a different tack. They fucking burned down the bloody barracks I was staying in. Here… Jelmer and Jessie took these videos,” Chris said, handing his phone to Wyatt.
After a prolonged chorus of the choicest swear words from the loudest guy Chris had ever had the great fortune to meet, the boy was invited to stay the night. Wyatt was all for marching on West and kicking ass, but Chris didn’t have the nerve to show his face at the campgrounds, let alone at Great Uncle Ben’s place. He was openly wondering if ‘turning gay’ was worth the cost. He — or rather, his presence — had caused Ben and Frida so much hardship already.
Wyatt nearly did his nut when Chris explained his fears, but he steered the boy into the house for Sunday lunch with the Tellers. The events of the day caused a definite relapse into a weary shyness Chris hadn’t experienced since he first arrived on the Island.
However, Maren and Wyatt eventually dragged him to one of Maren’s traditional Islander folk-dancing demonstrations. The two young men joined in, dressed in their own version of an Islander costume — leather pants, white dress shirts with black linen vests, and dark fisherman’s beanies — to the great hilarity of the onlookers. Oddly enough, their modern outfits kind of matched the traditional costumes that the older male dancers wore. They even knew the songs and historical dance routines.
• Dear Diary, Monday, May 7th.
Yesterday had its moments. Lost another day’s work, though. Mom, Piet, Henk, and my brothers came to the Island to kick ass. Well, I hauled my horny hole to Wyatt’s to lay low. I don’t even think they saw me leave. Maren Teller took me down her Lesbian Rabbit hole. Fuck, that was nice. Still, I prefer a man like Wyatt, though.
I think they say Emperor Nero burned down Rome just to build something for himself, but my brother Caesar isn’t even that original. He just burned down my life because he couldn’t stand me living it. He’s named after a conqueror, but he’s acting like a cheap arsonist. If they want me to burn my bridges, I will. I don’t need them to play the arsonist. Good riddance to bad rubbish.
Early on Monday, Chris helped the Tellers feed the horses and spoke with the locals about cooking up some homemade topsoil. He knew he couldn’t grow a lush green lawn on the sandy grit around the barracks without a little help. Getting the yards of topsoil from the mainland was not an option, so they decided to match Christopher’s ingenuity with their raw farming skills.
They could mix their manure problems with sea clay, leaf debris, sawdust, shredded bark, tree sand, and powdered sea shells, dumping the whole mess into a converted concrete mixer to create a rich, crumbly, dark soil. They would kill off the weeds and seeds with a gobbled-together steamer, creating an enriched base for the West campgrounds and their farms. Solving more than one headache in the process and creating the much-needed jobs for the Islander Youths.
Before cycling back to his grandma’s to see if she was okay, he dropped off Okko’s sunglasses and checked in at Pierce’s place. Gran Sofia had already heard the news and was eager to dish the local gossip about the failed intervention. When the boy mentioned he had his eye on the old Miller place, she sprang into action, handing him the phone number for the retirement home on the mainland where Robert and Patricia Miller had moved.
After breakfast, she personally escorted the reluctant boy straight back to Ben and Frida’s. Chris didn’t want to go, feeling sick with a ‘gut-wrenching shame’ over his family’s circus act, but Gran wasn’t having any of it:
“Don’t be daft, soan. I’ve talked with the rest, and remember — we de Boers always finish what we start —”
• Continued in chapter 17 •
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© StrykerJ - April 2026
