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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 18
• The truth can be weirder than fiction.
The salty night air did little to clear the fog of the ale as Chris guided a stumbling Hiro back toward the campgrounds. They were both ‘a little worse for wear,’ their laughter echoing over the Harbor View tents. The international relations weren’t just maintained; they had been forged in the fire of karaoke and high-proof Dutch courage.
But as the silhouette of Cabin 30 loomed in the beams of the lighthouse, Hiro’s playfulness vanished. He stopped, his fingers lingering on the heavy grain of the tough biker jacket he wore before he slowly peeled it off. He handed it back to Chris as if it were a cursed memory of a past he was told to forget.
“My sobo… she will not approve of this coat,” Hiro whispered, his voice cracking. “She still sees the ghosts. Grandma is still afraid I’ll join the Niji-kai… the ones who caught me.”
He looked down at his canvas ‘tabi’ shoes, the slurred words spilling out with a raw, drunken honesty. “I thought they were gods in their leather, Chris-san. Cool. Powerful. But they only saw a piece of raw meat in me. Something to prepare for their… devious criminal queer purposes.”
Hiro looked up, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “I do like this tough look, though. It makes me feel… tall, not like a piece of meat. I am… I am solly.”
Hiro slurred the last words. He was quite drunk. However, Chris finally understood the young man. Hiro had a past in the big city and was made to live with his Grandmother in rural Japan to keep him safe.
Chris took the buff jacket back. The leather was still radiating Hiro’s body heat.
“Nothing to be sorry about, Hiro-kun. I’ve got the coat. You just hang on to the butch attitude, buddy.”
He tilted Hiro’s chin up, the beams from the lighthouse catching the jagged, bleached tips of his new hair. “But what about the hair? Won’t your Grandmother have a heart attack over the K-pop makeover?”
Hiro let out a defiant, drunken smirk, ruffling the buff, dark-rooted wild style the Barber had created. “The hair? I can get away with it, I think. I will tell her it is the Island style. She has said she liked your spiky look.”
He gave Chris one last lingering glance — part gratitude, part longing for the leather — before slipping away. Like a true ninja, he vanished into the shadows of the bunker, leaving Chris standing alone in the quiet.
Satisfied with the day’s work, Christopher headed to Cabin 26. He didn’t bother with nightclothes; he stripped to his skin and slid under the cool sheets, wearing nothing but his plain Amsterdam biker jacket as a pajama. The thought of Hiro, the evening’s karaoke at The Whaler’s, and the pungent cowhide swirled around him. His last conscious thought drifted to the little Samurai — Wondering if the short Japanese twink had wanted more than just a blowjob. However, as soon as his weary head hit the pillow, he was out.
Just before dawn, the silence of Cabin number 26 was shattered. Chris awoke with a shock, his heart hammering against his ribs as a persistent, frantic tapping echoed against the glass. He rolled out of bed, still clad in his leather jacket, and pulled back the curtain to find a shadow silhouetted against the morning light.
It was Hiro. His nunchuck boner was going to hit the mark. Chris knew it the moment he saw the linen shorts hit the floor. Chris barely had time to register the heat coming off the boy’s skin before he was body-slammed back onto the bed.
Hiro was on him in an instant, moving like a bee on a cherry blossom — predatory, frantic, and hungry for the pollen. The ‘meat’ had decided it was time to take a first bite himself.
All Christopher had to do was lift his legs and look pretty. He did manage to hand Hiro a rubber and a bottle of lube, after he slicked the welcome mat so that the Asian could slide in with ease. The steely six-inch tool quickly found its rhythm, and the eighteen-year-old Asian showed Chris the ‘tricks’ Kobe’s rainbow gang had taught him all those years ago.
Hard and heavy. However, the boy was done quite quickly. The rubber had torn, and the bed was a mess. Hiro was about to retreat into his submissive demure state, but Christopher did not let him.
He skull fucked the Asian and gave the boy a taste of what love making with a man could — or better, should — be like.
Hiro grunted like a European stallion as the beefy Dutch twink split him in two. He pulled out and fed the Asian hunk his morning milkshake, grounding the horny gangbanger beneath Chris’s muscular, leather-clad torso. The wakeup call didn’t last more than ten minutes, but it was hard and heavy — exactly as FUKUSHI Hiro had intended.
To give the little samurai a treat, Chris slid back over the iron tool and started to grind the Japanese boy in long, slow strokes. He licked his sperm off the man’s face, feeding it back to him, but kept full control until the hammering heart beneath him finally found a steady rhythm.
“What are you doing today, Fukushi-san?” Chris asked, his voice low and steady.
“Can’t I hang out with you?” Hiro whispered, the post-orgasmic daze still in his eyes.
“Isn’t your group doing the Island’s museums today?” Chris noted. Hiro looked visibly disappointed, the wild K-pop hair falling over his face. “But it’s early. Why don’t we clean up and get some fresh bread in town? Your Grandmother will like that. Then I can loan you my bike. I know a spot where you can explore the queer side of this Island on your own.”
• Dear Diary, Wednesday the 9th of June, noonish.
This Japanese tour group turned out to be a godsend. Don’t tell Pastor Simons, but I fucked the crap out of Hiro ‘Fuck-me-sushi.’ Teaching the man that he doesn’t have to join a gang to be a gangbanger was quite fun. I bought him a small body trimmer to keep his balls smooth; quite the nunchuck he’s carrying with pride now.
I’ve let him borrow my bike so he could check out the glory-hole scene at the toilets near kilometer 13. When he came back, he had a smirk from ear to ear, made a gesture as if he was cleaning spilled juice from his mouth, and held up three fingers. The lucky bastard. I bet he’ll be back for more before they leave on Saturday.
While Hiro was out ‘exploring’ what the Island had hidden away, Chris spent his time clearing out his old cabin. A few of the Asian men and women joined him, dumping the damaged goods into a small scrap container. Once they saw the burned, treasured wooden heirloom ring box and the smashed drum-guitar, they huddled together, conversing in rapid Japanese that Chris couldn’t make out.
He cleaned the salvageable metal tools and vowed never to keep flammable solvents near his plastic tools again. With the cabin cleared, the local builders moved in on the bunker with heavy artillery, sanding the epoxy floor back to the concrete and starting over.
It was almost one o’clock when Chris remembered he’d promised his Grandmother to call his father. Although by now, he had found enough puzzle pieces to stitch his life story together.
As if John-Peter had felt his youngest son thinking of him, Chris’s phone rang the moment he returned to his new ‘home-away-from-home.’
“Hey, Chris. Your Grandmother called me. I heard about the… well, you know… How are you?” his father asked.
“Thanks for calling, sir. I’m fine.” Chris had no idea how or what to tell his father, so he opted for the Dutch approach and cut to the chase. “Dad, I’m in love with an Islander, Wyatt, and I’m gay. I bought a house on the Island. Could you please send my personal belongings to Great Uncle Ben’s as soon as you can?”
“Sure, I can do that. I’ve already put your stuff in a shipping container. Leeroy sends his love, too. He’s finally moving out. The house is too big for me by myself… and… I’ve filed for divorce —” It went quiet on the other side of the line.
“I can see why you’ve done that. That woman ain’t my mother. Is she, Dad?”
“Nope. Twenty years ago, Sarah Miller and I decided to call you Robert Patrick de Boer. But Charlotte pulled a fast one. She ‘adopted’ you and forged your birth certificate to make it look like she was your mom. Well, it was her revenge for my pissing beside the pot. I only did that to get back at her, because Leeroy isn’t mine, either. Though we stayed together for the kids… but… I am sorry, Robert. Umm — Sorry… I mean Chris.”
Chris could tell the revelation was a relief to John-Peter de Boer.
“Dad, am I named after Robert and Patricia Miller? I guess my Pake and Beppe, if things turned out differently?”
“Yep, they are sort of your great-grandfather and mother, but don’t go poking around them. Sarah wanted nothing to do with you. She only kept the baby because of her church.”
“I understand, sir. However, the house I am buying is the old one from Robert and Patricia Miller, Bathway 78. I’ve talked to them. It’s a nice place — got it for one euro. But I am not sure I can afford to do it up. And I am looking straight down Missus Miller’s backyard from the Harbor View campground. She is married to one of the Koiker brothers from the local builders. The world is a small place —”
Chris sank into thought as he looked out over the Island’s main town. He asked, “So what will you do next, Dad?”
“I decided to sell our old house and move to the ferry port on the mainland. I would love to talk with you in private then, Robert Christopher Patrick de Boer,” said Chris’s father. “By now, you must understand how stupid I’ve been. Twenty years ago, I found love on the Island, too. Sarah Miller didn’t want you, despite her grandparents’ advice. She was too young. Please accept my apologies. I’ll send over your birth certificate — the official one with your government name. Your mother worked at City Hall… and she had it forged… well… you know her. The judge will have his work cut out — let’s leave it at that for now. I’ll try to come over so we can talk in person. Love you, son. See ya, Chris!”
“Bye, Dad. Love you, too! And thanks for coming clean. I think I’ll stick to Chris, though. Worked for nineteen years. No need to complicate matters. See you soon,” Christopher said, feeling a rush of relief.
It all made sense now. Chris couldn’t blame his father. The man was a ‘rolling stone,’ and the Island was his anchor. The conversation only confirmed what he’d always suspected.
Christopher looked blankly at the screen of his phone. He scrolled through his playlists and found the one song that made sense:
Shame and Scandal in the Family by Shawn Elliott.
[Chorus]
Woe is me.
Shame and scandal in the family.
Woe is me.
Shame and scandal in the family.[Verse 1]
In Trinidad, there was a family.
With much confusion, as you will see.
It was a mama and a papa and a boy who was grown.
He wanted to marry, have a wife of his own.
Found a young girl that suited him nice.
He went to his papa to ask his advice.
His papa said: “Son, I have to say no.
This girl is your sister, but your mama don’t know! …
With an almighty grin on his face, Chris listened to the entire song a couple of times. This was his life! Though it was a little more gay than the story mused about. The only twinge of annoyance he felt was over the loss of his guitar; he yearned to play along.
Chris couldn’t care less about the rest of his former family, save for maybe Leeroy, who had always been half-decent to him. He didn’t want to waste time thinking about his older brothers, Casper and Caesar, or his sister, Cinthia. The only puzzle piece left was the ‘naming convention’ that nasty woman had used — every name had to start with a ‘C.’ Not that it mattered to him now, but he was curious about the answer.
• Diary: June 9th. The phone call that shook my world.
Just got off the phone with my father. John-Peter seemed oddly relieved. He — finally — ditched Charlotte Mulder and is moving house. What Dad told me made sense. It tallied with what I heard from Gran Sofia and the rest of the extended Islander family over the years. I just hope I won’t be dragged into the legal battle that’s sure to come.
Humpff. I am actually called Robert Patrick, after the folks I met on the ferry. Well, Caesar has been right about one thing. I was adopted. Shocker, right? My brain is doing backflips, anyway. I am sort of thinking of keeping Christopher as my first name, though. No need to complicate matters too much. Talk about a wakeup call, though.
That afternoon, Chris couldn’t settle into much of anything after that phone call with his father. He tried puttering around the campground reception, but his heart wasn’t in it. He even considered visiting his Grandmother, but the idea felt like an uphill climb he wasn’t ready to tackle just yet. He was bored out of his mind — desperate for action, yet unable to find the right spark — until Aunt Frida finally hauled him into her home. She had been carefully observing Chris from a distance that day.
“Christopher, sit down!” she ordered quite sternly. “What’s wrong, soan? You’ve been bouncing from place to place, doing little of anything.”
And then she said something Chris hadn’t expected to pass over her lips in a million years: “It’s as if there’s a turd stuck up your butt. Go and find your man. Ask him to clear the blockage. Good sex always helped me when life got difficult.” He had to mull that one over. It slowly turned his frown upside down.
Chris gave his seventy-two-year-old Great Aunt a firm kiss on the lips and raced out the door, leaving her with a giddy, girlish smirk on her wrinkled lips.
“Uncle Ben might get lucky tonight!” he thought elatedly.
The heavy-duty, bright red electric all-terrain bike hummed as the tires kicked up the dust from the crushed-seashell cycle paths. Chris was going to hang out with Wyatt at the nude beach around the Island’s east side. With any luck, the lifeguard could ‘clean out the blocked pipes’ and screw his brains out.
Forty-five minutes later, he chained the bike to a post next to the lifeguard tower. Chris didn’t get undressed just yet. He rolled out a beach towel and plunked his red swim shorts and thin yellow hoodie-shirt right in Wyatt’s line of sight. The nineteen-year-old muscly twunk unzipped his vest, slathering sunscreen over his well-defined chest and across his handsome face.
As he lay back to bake in the June sun, his eyes hidden behind butch Ray-Ban aviators, Chris heard the beach-goers around him muttering about the fully clothed boy in their midst. It was exactly what he’d expected. Their comments gave him chills of anticipation.
“Who does he think he is?… A lifeguard? Pleeaassee… Go tell the duty lifeguard about that impostor… This is a nude beach — I want to see what he’s packing.”
The low murmurs continued until a pair of very familiar, hairy blond legs dressed in the same lifeguard outfit colors had stumped to a halt on either side of Chris’s ears. When the boy finally opened his eyes and looked up, he saw a drooling cockhead dangling down the leg of Wyatt’s red lifeguard shorts.
As Chris reached up, Wyatt fell to his knees, publicly ‘tea-bagging’ the clothed boy. The tones of dissent shifted into whooping and hollering. Wyatt grew rock-hard, bent forward, and unpacked Chris’s flagpole — completely taking his eyes off the beach he was supposed to guard.
After a few minutes, Chris tapped his lover on the butt, letting the horny fucker plop out of his mouth.
“Mister Lifeguard!? What are you doing? I was just enjoying the sun — now I’ve got sand in my eye.” Chris smirked in faint surprise. He looked down his chest to where Wyatt was gobbling up the eight-and-a-half-inch smooth ramrod with gusto.
“Sand!? In your eye, you say? Let me look!” Wyatt straightened up and raised Chris’s powerful legs into the air, exposing the winking ‘rosebud’ to the salt air. “I can’t see any sand in there. Let me taste it — mm-hmm… sweet! Come into the lifeguard tower with me. I can flush it out.”
The lifeguard helped his victim up and guided him toward safety by running a hand down the crack inside Chris’s shorts. As the boys walked back toward the stairs of the lifeguard post, Christopher hooked an arm around his lover’s waist. The tower was nothing special. A ten-foot sea container stacked on top of a larger one, with metal stairs leading from the beach to the second level.
Wyatt closed the tower door behind them and stood — legs apart — with binoculars in hand in the middle of the ten-foot container with windows on all three sides. While Wyatt resumed his duty, Chris knew exactly what needed to be done.
He forcibly pulled the man’s shorts down and dropped to his knees, taking the ten-inch ‘flotation device’ between his lips and wetting the tip. Their eyes met briefly as Chris swallowed the slender four-inch girth in one go.
“Holy fuck, Chris. Slow down, man, or I’ll lose it.”
“Anyone waiting for that load?”
“Not really. I’ve got a builder friend who can’t get enough of it, though. Brutal type — very muscular. You don’t want to mess with him,” Wyatt joked between gasps.
“You’ve got a boyfriend? You dirty fag! And here I was thinking you took this post just to screw with those dainty tourist bitches —” Chris asked naughtily. He deep-throated the glowing heat, bobbing his head over the full ten-inch length while sliding a finger inside the lifeguard’s yearning hole, massaging the puckered love canal until the dam burst.
Chris swallowed hard but couldn’t prevent the spunk from dripping off his chin and onto the wooden floor. As he looked up, he scooted behind a swaying Wyatt to steady his lover — or rather, to screw him raw. The lifeguard had to steady himself on the desk as Christopher violently penetrated the twenty-two-year-old from behind.
He grabbed the binoculars from Wyatt and peered out over the surf, slamming into the incapacitated lifeguard as if to hold back the rolling tide. What Chris saw was just as exciting as what he felt. Wyatt’s butt was milking him, self-lubricating until a thick layer of froth coated his shaft — as thick as the foam the rip current pushed between the sandbanks.
“Trouble. Riptide at thirteen forty. Two swimmers — male and female,” Chris hissed as he pulled out with a slight plop and a groan from Wyatt. “Time to do your duty, stud.” He handed the binoculars back to Wyatt, who grabbed his shorts and a flotation device and ran like the wind.
Chris watched his blond hero go, scanning the coast and deciding to hoist the red no-swimming flag to the top. He had no right to do that, but it seemed the correct thing to do. No more swimming today. The wind had turned just as the low tide hit the beaches on the East of the Island.
Christopher met Wyatt halfway down the sudden, violent surf and helped both adults to safety. He blew the bronze signal horn to alert the other swimmers to get to safety immediately. It was time for them to hit the dunes to do a bit of ‘body surfing’ of the carnal kind — until the sea calmed down and their naked appetites were quenched.
• Continued in chapter 19 •
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And if your hands are not too dirty from all the spilled cum! 😋
© StrykerJ - May 2026
