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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 17
• Houses to buy and international relations to maintain.
The gears on his electric all-terrain bike clicked as Chris walked with lead in his shoes beside his Grandmother. He wasn’t sure if he could ever face Ben — or worse, Frida — ever again. That was before he’d even seen the extent of the damage done by his ‘biological family’ to the Harbor View cabins.
But as they reached his great-uncle’s garden path, he saw Frida’s clotheslines laden with his washed clothes. Even his leather gear was draped over chairs — cleaned, oiled, and buffed to perfection. Gran Sofia just smiled and steered him inside.
Great-Aunt Frida let out a sound like a wounded husky the moment she saw him. “Awooo-ugh... Awe-Aww.” It was a high-pitched howl that broke into a ragged sob. “Aww… I’m sorry. I’m sorry… Ooh, Chris, I’m so sorry.” Tears flowed freely down her flushed, wrinkled cheeks.
Even Uncle Ben was crying, tripping over his own words. “Ooh, Chris!… First, the confusion with Jelmer. Then the Irish. Now this. Everything happens to you, Christopher — but we took care of it. The insurance will cover all your replacement costs. All you need to do is sign the paperwork.”
Ben drew a frantic breath. “The cabin will be repainted, and the replacements are ordered. Fire Chief Willson was impressed by the new access road and the water tanks. He suggested fire-retardant curtains, and… and —”
Chris held up a hand to stop the tidal wave. “I think I’m the one who should apologize, sir,” he muttered, stunned. He hadn’t expected this; it was the total reverse of the crushing guilt he’d carried since Sunday.
“Robert — Christopher — Patrick — ‘too-good-for-this-Island’ — de Boer!” Sofia shouted. “You listen to me!… Never blame the shortcomings of others on yourself!”
“But… my mother!” Chris blurted out.
“Your mom can kiss my —” Sofia started, stopping at Frida’s scowl. “That ‘woman’ …” Gran laid a poisonous stress on the word, “… she isn’t worth the title. Call your father and ask him! It’s time you learned the ugly truth about that ‘bitch’ and her family.”
“Language, Grandma!” Christopher choked out. “Why did you call me Robert?”
“Just promise me you’ll call John-Peter. Your father has been dying to hear from you, ‘Robert.’ He should be the one to answer that. I can almost forgive him for what he did twenty years ago.”
Chris looked around the table, bewildered. What did Grandma know that he didn’t? The nineteen-year-old Dutch twink hooked his hands behind his head and listened to the deafening silence. Every eye was on him. He grabbed his phone and dialed.
He didn’t call his father — as everyone expected — he called the retirement home where Robert and Patricia Miller lived.
“Hello, sir. It’s Christopher de Boer. We met on the ferry. I wanted to thank you personally on behalf of the Islander Youth Fund for the large check,” Chris said, switching to speaker mode so his family could drink in every word.
“Ah, yes, I saw you on the news, Christopher. Nice picture with Wessel and the Mayor, son. How much did you manage to raise?” Mister Miller asked, his old husky voice crackling with elation. Chris smiled at the wide-eyed faces of his kin.
“Sir, are you sitting down? We raised over 120,000 euros in one weekend. And that’s just the beginning. Peak tourist season hasn’t even begun yet.”
The elderly Islander let out a joyous scream. His wife joined in, her voice fluttering with excitement.
“Sir, the reason I’m calling, however, is more personal,” Chris began, his pulse quickening. “I found true love on our Island. I’m thinking about asking him to marry me.”
It was his extended family who reacted first. They knew the two were dating, but the word ‘married’ struck like thunder on a clear day, nonetheless. Chris thrust a hand up to silence the gasps.
“Go on, son,” Robert Miller said gently. “I can imagine why you’re calling.”
“Would it be possible to discuss me buying your old home?” Chris asked. He heard the muffled, rapid-fire consultation of the Millers.
“Son, I’ll sell it to you for one euro!” Robert announced, laughing. “Then you can use your savings to fix the place up. So, who’s the lucky bride… umm… no, groom in your case, I guess?” Mr. Miller joyfully corrected himself.
“My partner is Wyatt. Otto Teller’s son. They run a stud farm on the East,” Chris announced, unable to hide the pride in his voice.
“Oh, yes. I know Otto,” Robert said. His wife chimed in, demanding a wedding date. Chris laughed, explaining it could be a long way off. “But I’ll make sure you get an invitation!”
“And Christopher? Just call us Pake and Beppe,” Robert Miller added, a mischievous grin evident in his voice. “I know we aren’t ‘officially’ your great-grandparents, but we’d love it. And ‘Sir’ just makes me feel far too old.”
Mister Miller laid an ominous strain on ‘officially’ as if he — like Gran Sofia — knew more than he let on. Robert explained he would contact the realtor right away and thanked the boy for calling. Chris thanked them in return and hung up.
Chris let out a grateful laugh. Sofia’s cryptic comments from earlier echoed through his mind. He couldn’t shake the suspicion that the Millers were more his kin than the Charlotte de Boer-Mulder side of the family had ever been. The sudden realization hit Chris like a freight train. Was he named after ‘Pake Robert Miller’? It was a missing puzzle piece clicking into place. Sofia, Frida, Ben, and the boys piled onto him in a chaotic huddle.
“Shhh!” Chris grinned. “I haven’t even asked the poor sod yet!” He felt a surge of relief, ready to burn the bridges back to the mainland.
Ben pulled a dark, frosted stone bottle of bitters from the fridge. He poured heavy shots that smelled of anise and juniper.
“To the new master of the Miller place!” he declared. “And we’ve cleared out cabin twenty-six for you until you’re ready to move into the new house, soan. The builders left you some stuff, and Jelmer and Jessie have been to the mainland to get you some clean clothes and a powerful laptop.”
Chris took a glass, the cold liquor stinging his throat with a medicinal burn. He looked at his Grandmother; her knowing gaze remained steady. The celebration was loud, but the question of John-Peter still sat heavily in the corner.
“It’s okay, Gran. I’ll call Dad once I’ve moved house — again. At this rate, I’ll have slept in every cabin on the Island,” Chris chortled, clinking glasses.
After the celebration, Jelmer and Jessie followed him outside. Chris gathered his smoke-damaged gear from the lines. The soot hadn’t been completely cleaned out of his white shirts, but they smelled fresh enough. Clothes could be replaced; he was more worried about what he’d find in the wreckage of his former Cabin.
Jessie helped fold the garments into brand-spanking-new suitcases and weekend bags. Chris stripped out of the sticky clothes he’d worn since yesterday, feeling Jelmer pluck some stray hay from under the collar. Jelmer rubbed Chris’s bare back before giving the half-naked twink a smooch.
“Needle in a haystack?” Jelmer asked with a smirk.
“Yep. Poked a few holes — including Wyatt’s younger lesbian Sis,” Chris bragged. He grabbed Jelmer’s chin and drove his tongue inside the twenty-year-old ‘bottom boy.’
For good measure, he hooked an arm around Jessie as the two loaded the converted golf cart with the luggage, giving Jelmer’s eighteen-year-old brother a quick, slobbery kiss as well.
Chris pulled a black tank top from the clothesline and draped his tough-looking Amsterdam biker jacket over the ‘kinky-through-zip’ leather pants. He gave the coat a quick sniff. Chris was relieved it still smelled like the giddy, pungent scent of cowhide he loved so much.
The leather combo made him look like the star he’d become. Tough. Kinky. Self-assured. Against all odds, he was buying a house on the Island, and the bridges to his old life were finally gone. And Chris didn’t have to do anything to make that happen. It wasn’t something he could have imagined before this ‘working holiday’ started.
Christopher twirled to show off his butch, full-leather look. Feeling like the center of the universe, he grabbed his cousins and pulled them into a heated hug.
“What was that for?” Jelmer asked gratefully.
“For being there for me. For pointing me in the right direction. For being my true family all these years.”
Chris nodded toward the maintenance buggy, and the guys drove him toward his new home on the eastern edge of the row of bunkers.
Halfway down the row, the heavy-duty flagpole mount had already been cemented into its footing block, and the chain-link construction fences were back up. From the rear, the damage to Cabin number 1 looked minimal.
But as the cart pulled up to the four-bedroomed Cabin 26 on the eastern edge of the row, the youngest Japanese guest came sprinting toward them.
The rest of the tour group was away on a day trip to the East, but Hiro Fukushi had opted to stay behind. At eighteen or nineteen, he was more interested in his gaming handheld and the driving beat of K-pop than staring at a horse’s ass for eight hours. Frankly, Hiro looked like he belonged in a boy band himself. He had a good singing voice and was a joy to be around.
Hiro’s lean, muscular, willow-thin frame suited him. He had a head of dark-brown hair that fell in a curtain to his eyebrows. At five foot four, he was even shorter than Christopher, but the hard worker was just too fuckin’ cute. His clothes were a curious mix of loose-fitting linens and black canvas ‘tabi’ shoes that split at the toe. Giving Hiro a kind of young samurai vibe. He moved with a quiet, practiced grace, yet he lacked any real worldly edge. All last week, the boy had clung to Chris. But it gave the twink plenty of opportunity to perfect his Japanese.
“Ooh? Chris-san, you are back!” Hiro wailed, nearly throwing himself around Christopher’s neck before catching himself. “I… I told those men where you lived. I am so sorry, Chris-san! I… I am so sorry!”
The Japanese man bobbed and bowed incessantly, as if he were mounted on a loose spring. The young Asian snapped upright, delivering a final, deep-crescent bow to the leather-clad builder. It startled the watching Islanders.
“FUKUSHI Hiro-kun! Look at me, friend,” Chris commanded, reaching out to steady the boy. “There’s no need to commit hara-kiri. You did nothing wrong. My brothers would’ve found my cabin with or without your help.” Chris explained this in a curious, fluid blend of English and Japanese.
As Christopher took both of Hiro’s hands in his, he gently pulled him close. Their chests collided, and Chris gave the young Japanese man a leathery hug that sent shivers down the boy’s spine. Hiro’s buttocks tensed as he felt Chris’s palm cup his glutes. He nearly fainted as the Dutch twink pressed his other hand between the boy’s shoulder blades, pinning him against the tough cowhide of his jacket. Hiro’s knees went weak when Chris leaned down and gave his forehead a tender kiss.
As Hiro looked up at his Dutch icon with dreamy black eyes, Chris felt the young man relax. He grew bold, his nimble hands beginning to stroke the leather’s textured grain. In the space of a heartbeat, Hiro tilted his head and planted his lips on Christopher’s. However, as soon as he realized what he’d done, Hiro-kun bolted in shame.
Chris just smiled softly at Jelmer and Jessie. “That took a lot of courage for a rural guy like him,” he explained, his voice thick with a grin. “He’s a great kisser, though. I assume he’s a virgin. But I think —” Chris broke off, eyeing the boy’s retreating form. “— I think I want to explore this a little deeper. About five or six inches deeper. I believe that dude might have a thing for leather just like me.” Chris gave his cousins a filthy smirk.
The cousins grinned and helped Chris settle into the larger cabin. Like the Commander’s bunker on the other side, it overlooked the town, but much further to the East. He could almost see his Grandmother’s house from here. And beyond that, the forest around Bathway 78.
The men from the local builders had already upgraded Cabin 26. The Japanese guests had moved cabins to make space. The builders had given the four-bedroom lodging the full ‘Chris-treatment.’ The walls were repainted, and the kitchen was moved into one of the bedrooms to make room for a large wetroom. Apparently, all within the space of one day.
The sight of two brand-spanking-new, glossy black workshop chests made Chris fear the worst for his old tools. The toolboxes had everything a plumbing electrician, and woodworking metal fabricator could wish for. The impressive setup found a new home in one of the other open-plan rooms. All a bit puzzling, but an engineer’s wet dream.
As Chris moved around in a daze, unpacking new gear and organizing his clothes, his curiosity wandered to the wreckage of Cabin 1. His build plans, laptop, old tool cart, guitar, and amplifier were still in there. And where was his Islander pin? Chris feared the worst.
When he went to investigate, he saw that the patio windows had already been replaced, and the structural damage inside seemed minimal. However, his large tool chest had been ransacked. The electric tools lay melted across the floor. The epoxy floor, where the burning curtains had dropped, was ruined — a blackened scar across the room.
Among the sodden debris of the cabin, he found the slightly charred remains of the heirloom box of his grandfather’s ring. When he found the soot-blackened Islander pin, he just screamed into the acrid air and left.
• Dear Diary, June 7th - the aftermath and new beginnings.
Cabin 1 was almost ruined by my brothers and uncles. Praise to the Islander Volunteer Fire Department and thick concrete walls. Not sure why, but I feel absolutely nothing for those people anymore. I hope the judge throws away the key once he’s done with them. Most of the tools Dad bought me are gone. My laptop is smashed, and my guitar is ruined. Well, they’ve put us back a few weeks, but that’s okay. The police and insurers are on the case. Thank God my skills can’t be burned, and tools and clothes can be replaced.
Diary, I think I’ll give my father a call. What do you think? I haven’t told him I’m ‘going gay’ yet. I think he won’t have the same rancid reaction as my ‘Dearest Mom.’ Captain John-Peter de Boer must have run aground around ‘Cape-Arse’ or ‘Poo-Bay’ at some point, right? The sly sea-dog. He’s my dad, but who’s my real mom? Now that’s a question I’m more interested in. Time to find out who I really am.
And I think I’ll try to catch me a ninja and do a bit of ‘sword fighting’ with Hiro-kun before the rest of the Japanese tour group returns. Should be fun.
Christopher made his bed and changed his clothes after taking a long-overdue shower. He hung his sizable collection of leather and denim gear on an open rack next to his ‘lovenest.’ After the shower and hanging the fire-retardant blackout curtains that separated the bedroom from the living room, he erected the mobile sex sling and got dressed.
Chris hooked the studded cock strap around his trimmed scrotum and draped a harness over his shoulders. A leather wrist guard and some boot-cut denims followed. The twink didn’t bother to fasten all the buttons, thinking Hiro Fukushi would have an easier time unwrapping the ‘excited package’ this way. But this was too little leather for his taste. Christopher wanted to see that excited reaction again. The Asian boy must be into those outfits, as well.
Chris accessorized the scuffed denim with his cowboy boots and a low-cut, open leather muscle vest.
“Still not there. I want to scare the kinky little samurai shitless. I wonder what he’s packing?” Chris thought with a wry grin as he watched his master outfit come together in the floor-to-ceiling mirror.
He stepped into a pair of chaps and cinched the zippers closed over his cowboy boots. The plain Amsterdam biker jacket and a leather ball cap came next, and he was almost there. Some silver bling, a bottle of lube, and a handful of condoms on his dresser, and the ‘Alpha persona’ was ready to ‘eat sushi.’
Hiro Fukushi’s eyes nearly rolled out of their sockets as ‘Leather Master de Boer’ knocked on the patio doors. Before the boy could step back, Chris clamped his hand on his neck. The calloused thumb pressing down over the gasping windpipe.
“Look at me!” Chris grunted. “Touch me! I know you want to.”
Hiro-kun wanted it, alright. He just didn’t know where to look first. This much leather seemed new to the Asian. In his ‘boiler-room’ Japanese, Chris asked, “Gei sekkusu?”
The Asian twink almost snapped to attention and answered with a muted, “Hai, Sensei. I want to try gay sex with you.”
Chris twisted his leather ball cap back-to-front and pulled that blushing face toward his. He didn’t need a pry bar to wrench the boy’s lips apart. This was Hiro’s greatest wet dream: making out with a European man his age, but with three times his experience, dressed in full leather.
However, when Chris touched the cute Japanese twink between the legs, the boy let out whimpering cries; he had only heard this from a Geisha girl in Japanese porn. High-pitched and full of grimaces and cries as if she were being deflowered by a thorny bush. Everywhere Chris clapped a hand on the young Asian boy, the same ear-splitting result happened.
This wasn’t anything like the playful gasps of anticipation he was used to, and certainly nothing like the dirty-talking growls Christopher had come to expect from people like Wyatt, Tomas, or the rest of the Islanders he’d screwed around with. This actually turned Chris off. Full stop.
Chris stepped away and turned to leave. Just before he reached the French doors of Cabin 30, he turned back to Hiro Fukushi.
“Watashi ni tsuite kite kudasai,” he called to the bewildered young man.
Hiro did exactly what Christopher had asked. He followed the Dutch leather stud. As they entered his cabin, Chris had already pulled two ice-cold dark stouts from the fridge and handed a glass to a puzzled-looking Fukushi.
“What is wlong, de Boer-san?” Hiro asked as he took a sip of the sweet, malty brew.
“Did I hurt you, Hiro-kun? You screamed like a pink cherry blossom Geisha, tossed and abused by Brother Wind. Slammed down and bent over to be abused by his friends Rain and Hail. European guys normally don’t do that… even virgins might not… You’re not a Geisha, are you, Hiro?” Chris asked, disappointment edging his face. He spoke in metaphors that the Japanese man seemed to understand.
As they drank the dark stouts in silence, Christopher streamed a verbal Japanese Geisha porn scene to the TV from his phone. As if a light bulb went off, Hiro-kun got the message. Apparently, that was just his frame of reference.
“Solly,” Fukushi muttered embarrassedly, breaking from his usually perfect English.
“Nothing to be sorry about. But those squeaks creeped me out. I thought I was hurting you, and I was only stroking. See what I mean?” Chris asked as he stepped away for a moment.
“I am sorry, Chris-san. I understand now,” Hiro called over.
Chris came back from the bedroom with Little Peter’s returned leather gear — the look he’d hoped for. Hiro’s eyes lit up, his hands running over the supple black cowhide. As Chris closed the blinds of Barracks 26, he gave a stern command: “Strip!”
Hiro was one step ahead. As he removed his linen clothes, a well-proportioned steelly nunchuck poked out from the thickest bush Chris had ever seen. The boy was hairless everywhere except his head, his crack, and that lush jungle obscuring his balls. But the acres of thick black hair were nothing compared to the powerful tattoo on his pack.
Chris gasped at the gang brand with Japanese characters inked on the boy’s chest. Chris asked if he trusted him. The predictable answer came instantly: “Hai, Sensei.”
He set to work like ‘The Barber of Seville,’ trimming and shaving his trembling K-pop idol. Even the chute got a clean cut and a lube job. Hiro flinched, but the virgin clearly enjoyed the finger-licking attention, his proud dick already dripping pre-cum over Chris’s chaps.
After a quick wash and a lingering kiss, Chris guided the naked Asian into the master bedroom. Hiro’s eyes lit up as they raked over the sex sling, though his knees trembled.
Chris handed him the biker jacket; it fit remarkably well, giving the boy a sudden surge of confidence. As Chris buckled the leather chaps around Hiro’s slender hips, the boy looked over his shoulder, eyes wide. He seemed unable to believe the dream was coming true.
After adjusting the laces, Chris moved on his knees in front of the lean leather boy and zipped up the chaps. The erect tool was on full display, appearing to have doubled in size without the thick bush to hide it. Hiro closed his eyes, hands resting on Chris’s head.
The Dutchman took the Asian between his lips to taste the pre-cum. Hiro gasped, going weak in the knees. He toppled backward, and Chris crawled over him, kissing his feet, the leather-clad thighs, and the root of his scrotum to admire his handiwork. The heavy petting reached a crescendo when Chris hooked the boy’s legs over his shoulders.
He knew what Fukushi was feeling. Chris gave the tool a firm tug as he went down over the leather boy. A few minutes later, the Asian unleashed a deep, booming grunt and blew a never-ending load into the air.
“Another one set free. No one can take that away from FUKUSHI Hiro,” Christopher mused, holding the trembling man. “Best let it all sink in. Now he just needs a friend and a wild, blond haircut — maybe like one of his K-pop idols,” Chris thought, satisfied.
Suddenly, Chris sat up between the boy’s legs and unzipped his leather jeans and pulled ‘Dicky’ free. Hiro’s eyes grew wider still, fearing he was about to get nailed hard. They became so wide that they threatened to pop out of his skull.
He let out one of those high-pitched squeaks again, but Chris just pressed a finger over Hiro’s lips and unsnapped his metal-studded cock-strap. He hooked it around Fukushi’s hairless scrotum instead, snapping a photo of the man’s tattoo and the ‘dangerous Asian tool.’ Dangerously good-looking, that is.
As Hiro adjusted to the new tightening sensation, Chris leaned in. He took the smooth, hairless weight of the man’s sack in one hand, bringing the head of the cock to his lips. He started ‘blowing the Asian pole like a trumpet,’ teasing out a rhythm until Hiro began to buck his hips, urging Chris down. Chris surrendered to the motion. Eating ‘sushi’ this way was arguably his favorite meal on the Island. And watching this K-pop idol transform under his guidance was the perfect side dish.
As Chris moved up, he pressed the tip of his Dutch hammer against the Asian’s buttocks, raining kisses down on the young guest. Aside from looking cut and tasting delicious, the Japanese kanji tattoo on Hiro’s chest caught Christopher’s eye again. It read 虹会 — Niji-kai. The ‘Rainbow Gang.’ Was it just a tattoo — or was it a gang brand?
It depicted two dragons in leather jackets chasing each other’s… umm… tails. It looked crudely done, clearly etched into Hiro’s skin against his will.
If it were a gang brand, it was no wonder the boy lived with his Grandmother in rural Japan, far away from the wild nightlife of Kobe. There he lived protected from the Yakuza — the Japanese Mafia. Christopher didn’t dare ask. He knew the Japanese were deeply private in some regards.
Later that afternoon, the two young men walked side by side into town. Getting surprised looks from some of the campers. They did look quite queer dressed as they were. The rest of their attire was casual enough, but they still wore their biker jackets despite the summer heat.
Rather than heading straight to Wessel’s Beach Club for an early dinner and a spot of international karaoke, Chris took Hiro to see Leo for a haircut. The barber gave him a wild, bleached K-pop idol hairstyle with dark roots. It suited the boy's new tall stance. And the leather jacket barely concealed the traditional tattoo on his right pec.
• Continued in chapter 18 •
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© StrykerJ - May 2026
