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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 19
• Taking the Plunge and playing House.
Chris was breathing like a winded bull, his broad chest slick with a cocktail of saltwater, sweat, and spent adrenaline. The nude woman he’d pulled to safety had been struggling all the way to the beach, making every yard a battle. Wyatt had a much easier time with the naked guy. When Chris asked what his secret was, Wyatt smirked. “Stuck a quick finger up his butt. That quieted him right down. After that, he listened remarkably well. But thanks for the help, Colt.”
With the change in wind direction came a sudden shift in temperature, too. Before long, a hailstorm blew over the beach as if the rapture, that Pastor Simons often quoted during Sunday’s preachings, had come early. By the time the storm had blown itself out, the nude beach was empty, and Wyatt closed the lifeguard station early. Chris loaded his electric bike into the bed of the lifeguard pickup truck, and they slowly headed down the shore, making notes of the jetsam and flotsam that had washed up.
By the time Wyatt had finished his report on the rescue, it was already past dinner. Although it was drier, the darkened storm clouds still lingered, causing the lighthouse to grind into action before six o’clock.
Chris had asked his lover to drop him off on the Bathway backroad. Wyatt had looked a little surprised; he thought Chris would take the opportunity to get dropped off at Cabin 26 of the Harbor View Campgrounds. However, he understood the moment Chris dangled a large keyring in front of his face.
“Oh!? You got yourself a home? You’ve kept that quiet!” Wyatt called, stunned.
“Got the deed and the keys this morning. Wanna go check it out?”
“Fuck yeah!”
“Sure, we can fuck there, too,” laughed Christopher at his hunky blond ‘stallion breeder.’
Apparently, the news had already done the rounds. By the time the headlights swung up the drive to Bathway 78, Wyatt had to drop anchor. Chain-link fences and heavy concrete barriers blocked the path.
Chris let out a sigh of despair. “What’s the betting the building inspector has something to do with this? Let’s go to the campgrounds. I’m sick of that man.”
“Hell no!” shouted Wyatt, “Don’t give in to them. You’ve got every right to live here, Chris. Come on! We can walk around the roadblock. And you’ve got unfinished ‘bum stuff’ to complete, Colt!”
Wyatt hooked an arm over Christopher’s shoulder and practically dragged him to his new house. Well, it was new to Christopher de Boer. Bathway 78, built in 1952, had definitely seen better days, but it was his — lock, stock, and barrel.
Chris looked at the front door and found exactly what he’d been expecting. The Islander municipality had ‘condemned’ the building. He ripped the paperwork from the door, tears pricking his eyes. Luckily, the rain was falling hard and fast now, masking his face. This definitely wasn’t the way he’d imagined sharing his new property with his soulmate.
Wyatt pulled Chris close and took the keys. He had to try half a dozen before the door finally clicked open. He hooked an arm under Christopher’s legs and carried the sobbing heap of a man over the threshold. When he set Chris back on his feet, the boy just bowed his head in defeat. Wyatt comforted him as best he could, pressing the boy to his damp swimmer’s chest.
“Deep breath, Chris. ‘♫ Never yet has it been so dark, but it always turns to light again. ♫’ I love you, Christopher de Boer.”
The song Wyatt quoted came from a troubadour who sang in a Low Saxon dialect from where the boy had grown up. Chris hadn’t expected Wyatt to know it, but he was a sucker for stuff like that. Better yet, it held true in real life.
As the two wandered around the house, rain plunking on the windows, they found a few candles. The house was fully furnished; the previous occupants had simply left their lives behind. There was not much left of the ancient building, though. The roof was leaking, and the paint and wallpaper were peeling. However, with a fire lit in the hearth, it became warm and cozy quite quickly.
• Dear Diary: 9th of June – Finally home.
Just a quick note before the fun really starts. Wyatt and I finally made it to my new place. It cost me a whopping one euro, and damn, does it show! It’s a ‘fixer-upper’ with every old-house problem in the book — but the bitch ain’t one! God, I am so in love with that man. Seeing Wyatt in his element on the beach, herding those ‘naked sheep’ back to safety, makes me rock-hard just thinking about him.
The renovation of this 1950s red-brick monstrosity might take a lifetime. Wyatt is tending to the fireplace right now, and believe me, he’s stoking the heat in my blood, too. I’ll figure out who condemned the building later — my money is on Dick Albertus Burk and his Chitty Hall cohorts. They think they can scare me off? Please. They’ve just supplied the evidence. I’ll let Sergeant Tomas look at the fingerprints tomorrow.
Right now, it’s time to ‘bless’ this place properly. The fire is burning hot, and the guy next to me is absolutely steaming! Let’s make this work.
Wyatt wrapped an arm around Chris and started kissing him. It wasn’t the hurried, ‘butch’ way he usually made out with guys, but a loving, tender embrace right there on the red leather Chesterfield sofa. The old springs were poking into Chris’s back, but he didn’t care; he craved the warmth of Wytze Antone Theodor Teller.
Robert Christopher Patrick de Boer told his man everything — the phone call with his father and the family horrors he’d discovered. Wyatt took it all in his stride, letting the storm in Chris’s brain blow itself out without judgment.
By the time the muscular twunk had stopped talking, he found himself naked in front of the hearth, getting sucked and stroked by the blond surfer hunk. With girls, Chris had never liked extended foreplay. He was a man of action and profound deeds — the rougher, the better — but he could definitely get used to this.
Wyatt slipped on a condom and was about to slowly enter when Chris asked the nuttiest question he could imagine.
“Wytze Antone Theodor Teller — will you ‘consider’ marrying me?”
Wyatt let the words sink in for a moment. Chris had been cryptic; this wasn’t an outright proposal, but something more calculated. What else would you expect from a budding engineer who’d hit some turbulence on the Island? Christopher was testing the waters before taking the plunge.
“Christopher, I was ready to marry you the moment I read your diary,” Wyatt said. “But I love being your boyfriend and seeing where this takes us. However… you do know I’m bi, right? I mean, I love it when we can screw around a little, too. This just came much quicker than I’d imagined… Oh, Christopher — I’d love to marry you, eventually. This is a nice place to live.”
“Ooh, Wyatt, I love that. I didn’t want to make the same mistake Jelmer made with me — rushing into things.”
“Will you stop talking and kiss me, Colt?”
“Whatever makes you happy, stallion. You’re the horse breeder and the best lover I know. As long as our bed remains ours to share, we can set up a pool-house love-shack for your flings!” Christopher joked as his ass got ravaged by his six-foot-seven blond surfer hunk.
The lovers flip-fucked the night away. Upside-down, back-to-front, and top-to-bottom — the two men tried every page of the Kama Sutra and must have invented a few new positions along the way. They took turns making wild, passionate love until the crack of dawn. They stank of sweat, cheap liquor, and copious amounts of semen by the time Chris finally opened the patio doors of Cabin 26.
By the time they slipped into the shower, it was well past breakfast. They were ravenous and a little giddy — two men drunk on each other and the salt air. Wyatt scrubbed Chris’s back, licking the nape of his neck and reaching around to lather up the man’s horse cock with foamy suds. Chris giggled — a sound of pure, unadulterated joy he hadn’t felt in years.
He leaned his head back against Wyatt’s dripping chest, looking up at the man towering over him. At six-foot-seven, his lover stood a towering nineteen-and-a-half hands high. Wytze wasn’t just a stallion; he was a draft-horse-sized with a powerful swimmer’s body, and Chris reached back to stroke that slender, spent ten-inch horse cock back to life.
He turned around in the steam, cleaning the slender pole with his hot mouth until he felt it pulse against his tongue. But the moment he heard Teller’s stomach give a loud grumble, Chris stood up with a grin. He rinsed away the last of the soap suds and climbed out to start breakfast for his man. Christopher couldn’t remember ever being this happy. He had an Islander boyfriend, a lover — a fucking nineteen-hand stallion to call his very own!
Christopher wanted to climb the lighthouse and shout their union from the very top. But he checked himself. No — he needed to approach this a little more carefully. Chris didn’t want to offend the few locals who were opposed to his openly ‘homosexual mainland behaviors.’ Well, not just yet, anyway.
He knew the Island was a small pond, and he’d just dropped a very large stone into it by buying Bathway 78. He had to be strategic. Christopher wanted to be seen as the engineer, after all, and you don’t build a bridge by screaming at the river. He would ground himself first, secure his home, and then — once his boots were firmly planted in the Island’s soil — he’d give them something real to talk about.
After a hearty breakfast, Chris shooed his lover back East to do his duty at the stud farm. He had places to go and things to do, and as much as he loved his stallion, he couldn’t protect his future while tangled up in Wyatt’s bedsheets. He needed to move, and he needed to move fast.
Chris texted Sergeant Tomas to make an appointment with the local detective; he wanted to know exactly who had drafted that condemnation letter. If it was D.A. Burk — well, he’d figure out what to do next. On his way to the middle of the Island, he planned to stop by his grandma’s to drop the happy news, but first, he had a half-dozen phone calls to make to the mainland. His father needed to know about his future plans. Surprisingly, Chris actually felt drawn to the distant man.
Growing up, the sea captain had been away from home three-quarters of the year, leaving his so-called ‘Mom’ and his nasty mainland family to practice their own twisted brand of ‘parenting.’
To build the steep footpath down the dune from the lower terrace into town, Chris needed a tool he couldn’t find on the Island: a large mid-range excavator. To haul that beast back to the Island, he needed a serious truck — something more than a standard pickup. He’d have to talk to his Dad about the logistics, and that brought its own set of challenges. Christopher needed a Commercial Driver’s License — CE and D — for the heavy shit Chris was planning, let alone the money and the time he realized he didn’t have.
Despite the hurdles, Chris could see light at the end of the tunnel, and man, was it bright! Even the looming fight with ‘Chitty Hall’ didn’t faze him anymore. He’d already contacted a lawyer on the mainland who was willing to take the case to court if necessary. Chris asked Jelmer to set up a spreadsheet for all the costs he would incur building the path on municipal property, creating a document trail that led all the way back to the threatening letters the building inspector had so helpfully left at Great Uncle Ben’s doorstep.
Gran was over the moon when she learned Chris was finally taking the plunge. She could see that her grandson was deeply in love, and to her, that was the only thing that truly counted.
Sofia didn’t give a damn that the love was for another man; she just wanted to meet him as soon as possible to welcome Wyatt into the ‘fold.’ Even Chris’s father was elated, his voice booming over the line as he demanded they meet on the mainland to discuss their futures.
John-Peter had found himself a sleek new property on the other side of the barrier sea, and he was the one who suggested hitting the Government Surplus Auction. He told Chris not to worry about time or money — apparently, his old man had ‘made a killing’ selling their former home. It was almost stupid, really; he’d made a clerical error by adding an extra zero to the listing price, and some desperate buyer had snapped it up for twice that amount.
The next time Chris opened his banking app, his heart nearly skipped a beat. His balance had swelled by a quarter of a million since his last check. The ‘twink’ had to call his bank just to confirm the numbers on the screen were real. Money ain’t everything, but it helps a lot if you got it.
The Islander police confirmed exactly what Chris had suspected: the letter stuck to his door had been sent without any proper authorization. They found the forged document — complete with a fake signature from Madam Mayor — on the municipality’s intranet. The Mayor herself confirmed she hadn’t condemned a single brick of Bathway 78 and, livid at the overreach, ordered the police to launch an internal investigation immediately.
• Dear Diary: What day is it? I lost track. Friday, I think.
Things are looking up. Way up! I told the clan I’ve found a boyfriend, and they couldn’t be happier for me. Saturday, I’m heading to the mainland for a few days to meet Dad. God, I haven’t looked forward to seeing him like this in years. I might not be back this weekend; I’ve got a few ferry trips booked for tomorrow. Our Japanese guests are moving on, and I’ve promised I’d personally see them off. The Island is a total madhouse — overrun with tourists coming and going — but helping out on the ferry saves me from having to book a ticket.
I’m hoping I can snag a last-minute spot at an accelerated driving school. Truck driving, that is. Well, it depends on whether I find the wheels that suit my style. Something beefy! Ha! Fuck, I’m so happy I could run around naked just to show off. Wyatt drops by almost every day — I don’t think he can fully believe this is real, either.
Jessie and Jelmer will have to make do without me for a while.• Note to self: I need to get Peter’s birthday gift sorted as well. I’m glad Jessie gave me the twirps’ measurements. •
On Monday, the local builders are upgrading the upper bunkers — new floors and showers. We’re leaving the roofs until next year. Ha, next year! I’m actually living on the Island next year! I guess I’ll need to look into an engineering correspondence course once things settle down. Let the ‘High-Cs’ rot in jail! Who’s the runt of the family now? I am the KING!
Chris drove his bike to the local reclamation yard to check on the progress of the farmhands. They’d been mixing a rich, crumbly topsoil from the Island’s waste, and the mountain they’d already created impressed him. The boys had taken it a step further, though — they’d incorporated and started producing three distinct blends of topsoil, solving nine Islander problems in one go.
The young builder arranged for a delivery of the sweet-smelling, weed-free, fertilized mix to the Harbor View campgrounds. Once he returned, Chris could finally transplant the prickly bushes from the front of the dune to the back of the lower bunkers. He organized a volunteer party to empty out the upper bunkers, giving the locals and the Japanese guests a massive send-off dinner that evening. It would also give Chris the perfect opportunity to ‘parade’ Wyatt as his man. Or maybe the other way round. Both were Tops in their own right. And they hadn’t figured out who wore the pants in their relationship.
That evening, Uncle George, the chef cook, set up the catering behind the larger bunkers. Wyatt, Okko, and Pierce rigged their music equipment as guests began trickling in. Skip had brought half the Island’s baked goods and cakes to the improvised party. At the same time, the Asian guests prepared snacks for the volunteers and Chris’s extended Islander family. Even Gran Sofia and Otto Teller were at the extravagant do. Maren and the folk dancers gave the Japanese group a final taste of Islander tradition; everyone was mighty impressed by the work Christopher had accomplished so far.
Saturday arrived early. Chris — dressed in a fresh new crew jacket and pleated black pants, though still rocking his cowboy boots — loaded the suitcases of the thirty guests onto a horse-drawn cart Okko had provided. Hiro’s ninety-three-year-old grandmother was driven to the harbor in the maintenance buggy as the procession made its way through the morning fog toward the ferry.
As they arrived on the dock, the Japanese guests crowded around Christopher, Ben, Frida, and their boys to exchange parting gifts. Chris was handed a hand-carved wooden ring box to replace the one that had fallen foul of the flames. From the dainty artisans who’d helped him paint murals in the cabins, he received a set of homemade traditional brushes. In return, Chris handed out gifts to each valued guest and helper with true Islander swagger, leaving Hiro for last.
His gift contained a ‘butch’ leather wristband embossed with Christopher’s logo and the leather jacket Hiro loved so much. By gifting it this way, Hiro’s ‘sobo’ couldn’t refuse it. His grandmother looked surprised, but when the coat settled onto Hiro’s slender shoulders, she had to agree it suited the short, but ‘butch,’ young man. Chris whispered to him, “Hiro-kun, be who you want to be. Not what others tell you to become.”
The young Asian man threw his arms around Chris’s shoulders and kissed him in public — full on the mouth and with a daring bit of tongue. A little flustered, Chris helped the group load their belongings into the baggage carts and personally checked them onto the ferry.
The two-hour crossing went by in a flash. The ‘Dutch hunky twink’ gave the passengers a musical performance that rivaled the times he’d sung on the Island with professionals like Wessel, earning a massive payday for the Islander Youth Fund. He did it three times, back and forth to the Island, until it was finally time to drop anchor at his Dad’s new place.
• Continued in chapter 20 •
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© StrykerJ - May 2026
