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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 21
• Getting back on the horse.
The rest of the weeks ashore, Christopher was floating on cloud nine. Yet, he had bought far more than the stuff he ‘needed’ — he had secured everything he wanted. Buying a digger, rather than hiring it, was a master stroke to secure his future on the Island. His father helped haul the load toward the ferry port, towing the massive mid-range excavator behind the ‘Yellow Monster’ 6x6, while Chris handled the rented chase truck. The F-550 still had garage plates — but those would get them home.
They had stacked a large number of recycled plastic track mats in every available space. It was like playing ‘Tetris’ with the buckets and hydraulic attachments. With only two trucks and three trailers, JP and Chris repacked the equipment twice until everything fit. With the tilt trailers stacked atop the larger container trailer, the convoy looked like a tactical engineering unit on the move, orange warning lights ablaze.
The one piece of gear that Chris — and the boys back home — were most hyped about was that professional-grade inspection drone. Strictly speaking, he didn’t need this. However, the photographer in him wanted it. The hexacopter was a beast, powered by six gasoline rotors and equipped with high-powered thermal and 4K cameras. It was a last-minute grab, but it absolutely decimated his old drone in every spec. It wasn’t a toy; it was an ‘eye in the sky.’
“Not sure what business you’re getting yourself into, Chris, but damn, man. That was money well spent! Though… shouldn’t you have spent it on rebuilding your new home?” John-Peter asked after the auction was paid.
“I still have a little left in the budget I set for myself. I’m buying dinner tonight!” Chris answered, without saying much of anything.
John-Peter helped his boy redistribute the load over the three trailers once they hit the ferry port, parking the twenty-foot shipping container in a deserted corner of the terminal. It sat there locked behind gates, filled with Chris’s old life and his new tools, ready to be barged to the Island in a week or two.
Chris used his final days on the mainland to put the finishing touches on his master plan. He spent a few days hammering through an accelerated upgrade to his Dutch driver’s license. By the time the five-day condensed training gauntlet was over, he was legally cleared to pilot anything with an engine: mopeds, motorcycles, light and heavy trucks, and even tractors.
He also tacked on a certification for heavy building equipment, mastering the joystick controls of his new excavator. He was on a mission, and the boy was on a goddamn winning streak. While he was at it — and since he clearly had a knack for joysticks — he grabbed a commercial drone license, too. With a bit of luck, the new licenses and plates would arrive by the time he set foot on the Island.
Wyatt had been aching for his boyfriend’s hot ass, peppering Chris’s phone with thirsty texts. Even the second cousins and the local builders were crawling out of the woodwork, dying to know where Chris had vanished to. When the twunk finally dropped a few photos of his new arsenal into the ‘Gay-Team’ group chat, his phone practically blew up with congratulations. Even Police Sergeant Tomas and the guys from the underfunded volunteer fire department got wind of the purchases.
• Diary: Sunday night, June 20th. Time to get back to work.
This trip was a goddamn gauntlet, but fuck, was it worth it. I went in thinking I was just buying gear to carve a zig-zag path to town, but apparently… I bought an entire fleet for the Island. Not that I mind. If the locals need me to move mountains, they’re gonna pay me to move ‘em.
I was a little shocked when the fire department reached out, though. Those guys are absolutely hard for my new drone — and honestly, I can’t blame them. I’ve seen those studs with their massive fire hoses getting a little worked up whenever I walk by, too. But let’s keep that our little secret for now. Heck, I might even join their search-and-rescue crew. I already put the hexacopter through its paces and made some 3D scans of the new truck. Man, he’s a fucking beast! The yellow base color is growing on me. He needs a custom midnight-black trim job and a name that sticks.
I’m thinking of calling my car Goldilocks. Yeah… I know it’s a girl’s name, but once I’ve got this buff sunset-yellow hunk of steel trimmed out in black, everyone will know exactly who’s boss. Yet another project to add to the list. FUCK! I love this working holiday!
I’ve been to see Victor Moore, and shit — he gave and got more. But all I want is my man. Six inches works for me, but ten is just that little more intense. Can’t wait to get home and show off my new jacket. Peet’s birthday present looks great, too. I hope he likes it better than the black gear. Very butchly understated cool. Just like the man himself.
A few days before the return ride to the Island, Chris texted his man. “Hey, Wy-rat…” Chris texted, “… I’m thinking about getting a tattoo.”
“Oh? That’s very permanent,” Wyatt replied sharpishly.
“Yes, Mom, I know. But I liked the way it looked on Hiro. Very butch and easy enough to hide,” Christopher scoffed back.
“What did you have in mind, Colt?”
“My birthday is on the twenty-seventh of April — King’s Day. So I’m thinking a stylized graphic of the Dutch Lion. An artsy mix of 3D and a tribal-style mane. On my right pec.”
“Cool! Make sure you can expand it over your shoulder and down your arm later. I love tribal work. It’s a bit old-school, but it would suit you, stud. Just don’t get a tramp stamp or worse… a willy mark!”
“Now, there’s an idea. I’d have them tattoo a 100-euro bill on my dick. So you can see it grow to a 1000! God, I miss you, Wytze! Be home soon.”
The ferry company had put on an extra cargo ship to carry the equipment trailers to the Island on Monday. Other trucking companies also made eager use of the cheaper option. Chris had put the word out across the Island, ensuring the return trip to the mainland was booked solid as well. It was a win-win for everyone.
In fact, it gave him an idea for the Island’s youth: an Islander shipping coordinator. The way it stood, getting Amazon, UPS, or PostNL packages onto this sandbar was a goddamn logistical nightmare — constantly delayed, redirected, or left sitting in a warehouse on the mainland. It was a service vacuum just waiting to be filled.
The ferry ride back to the Island gave Chris the first real moment of peace he’d had in weeks. Leaning against the railing, he looked down at the cargo deck where the convoy sat secured with heavy chains. The saturated sunset-yellow of the Ford F-550 stood out against the drab colors of the other trucks like a middle finger. The other drivers looked impressed, though they warned him it would be a bitch to keep that paint job clean. With his own bleached locks whipped by the sea breeze, the visual was almost comical.
“Goldilocks,” Chris whispered to the wind, a smirk tugging at his lips. It felt like a horse’s name — or a CB handle used by the old-school truckers. Something sturdy, yet elegant.
It was the perfect ironic jab at the ‘beast of a machine’ and a warning to the homophobes on the Island. This truck wasn’t just a tool; it was Chris personified. He wasn’t too massive to navigate the tight, winding paths of the Island’s interior, and he certainly wasn’t too small to move sandy mountains. Like the old fairy tale, ‘he was just right.’
“Yeah… that’s you, my boy. Goldilocks,” he muttered, already imagining the black block-lettering he’d stencil onto the driver’s side door.
Pierce had brought a large tractor to the port to help unload the heavy gear onto dry land. He wasn’t the only one eager to see the haul, either. There was a police escort and a fire truck on standby — and, of course, the ‘Gay Team’ had come to the rescue. In a slow, heavy procession, they made their way to the Harbor View Campgrounds, where Jessie, Jelmer, and Wyatt were eagerly waiting.
His boyfriend looked ready to fling himself at Chris the second he hopped out of the tall truck cab. However, Chris put a flat hand against Wyatt’s chest to stop him. He gave the surfer dude a small, teasing kiss before lifting Victor’s new black bomber and his unbuttoned white denim shirt. He showed off the plastic-wrapped spot on his right pec where the side-profiled lion sweetly smirked. The skin was still raw and red, but the grinning stylized tribal beast on his chest perfectly matched the smirk on Chris’s face.
Chris called Pierce and Okko over to discuss the birthday surprise he had planned for Little Peet. He tasked Wyatt and the rest of the crew with arranging a horse-drawn cart to serenade the twink on Wednesday — a classic Island touch for the cousin. Turning to Jessie, Chris pointed out the details of the tobacco-brown classic shirt-collared version of his own new bomber.
While Peter’s brown coat shared the same vintage soul, it featured shoulder padding, custom-cut sleeves, and an elasticated waist designed to ripple the heavy leather across the small of his back. Chris’s own hard V-taper didn’t need that kind of help to accentuate his frame, but on Peter, the fit was going to look lethal.
“Jesus, Christopher! What did you spend on that?” Jessie gasped, eyes wide as he ran a hand over the premium hide.
“Not much. I met a leather-tailoring thug — he took the rest out of my ass,” Chris whispered, smirking at Jessie’s shocked expression.
The giddy twink turned to Great Uncle Ben, asking for permission to park the heavy equipment on the field behind the eastern bunkers for now. Chris was itching to ride his horse and was dying for some long-overdue alone time with Wyatt, too.
Ben, looking slightly aggrieved, demanded to know when the path dividing the thirty cabins would finally be reopened. He’d been fielding complaints all week and didn’t yet see how this massive new arsenal was going to solve his problems anytime soon.
The men pitched in, driving the impressive new gear across the path behind the bunkers and unloading the haul into Chris’s barrack. The builders and volunteers had not sat still over the past two weeks. They’d dropped off hundreds of loads of homemade topsoil. Setting up a stockpile on the edge of the campgrounds. All the upper cabins had been painted and redecorated on the insides, as well.
They could not stop admiring Goldilocks. Heck, Chris had to take selfies with half the fire department in front of it. It became a tactical operation, the heavy machinery finally coming to rest in the Island’s salt air.
• Diary: Mid-morning on the 21st of June – What a welcome home.
Wyatt needs some serious TLC after me messing around on the mainland. The dude actually missed me. Fuck! It feels good to be loved like that. Honestly, damn those homophobes and their small-town minds. Noah Burk saw my ‘clown car’ and felt the need to yell some bullshit about me overcompensating for something. The prick doesn’t know the half of it. Goldilocks would flatten his pathetic pimp-wagon in a heartbeat without even flinching. If he wants to see what ‘overcompensating’ looks like, he can wait until I’m behind the controls of my excavator, carving a path right through his ego.
Look, Diary, I know his father, D.A. Burk, and Pastor Simons don’t approve of gay Islanders. But by now, I’m beginning to suspect that we far outweigh the national average on this sandbar. But Noah? What’s his deal? You’d think he’s the one with the big secret. Or maybe the closets in his place have unbreakable padlocks and a triple-digit code. Ha! Imagine Noah as a queer. He’s not my type — not by a long shot — but I’d set his ass free if it meant he’d stop being such a miserable prick.
I’ve finally found my power, my gear, my music, and my Man. If Noah wants to stay trapped in that bitter little cage of his, that’s his funeral. I’ve got a mountain to move and a boyfriend to breed. One of us is winning, and it isn’t the guy yelling from the window of a beat-up sedan.
Aunt Frieda and Gran Sofia had already put the finishing touches on Chris’s upper cabin, stocking the fridge and pantry to the brim. It felt like an eternity before the door finally clicked shut, leaving Wyatt and Chris alone in their palace once again.
Chris let out a long breath, crossed the room, and dropped the needle on some Marvin Gaye. He didn’t say a word; he just stood there, undressing his boyfriend with his eyes as they began to sway in tune with the soul music. As they began to dance, they sang along with the tunes. Their voices harmonized remarkably well.
The keyboard player saw the fire in Chris’s eyes — the new, hardened edge he’d brought back from the mainland. Wyatt knew exactly where this was leading. And he was more than ready.
The lifeguard’s hands slid down the leather of Chris’s new jacket, gripping his hips with a proprietary squeeze. They moved in slow motion, savoring the friction until the final layers of clothing fell away.
Only then did Wyatt’s fingers trace the freshly tattooed skin of his man. It was a side-on view of a Dutch lion, smooth and stylized, its mane trailing off into bold tribal swirls that swept toward the shoulder like dark flames. The beast wore a faint, mocking smirk, giving Wyatt an approving side-eye as he dipped his head to the raw ink. It was a ‘friendly’ face with a predatory edge — just like the man who wore it.
Christopher caught the glint of a new black hoop in Wyatt’s right ear. It matched his own. When he murmured his approval, Wyatt didn’t just smile — he lifted his shirt to reveal a matching, butch barbell piercing through his nipple.
The photographer in Chris sparked to life. He grabbed his new Nikon, courtesy of the insurance grant — positioning Wyatt in full-frontal erotic nudity before the floor-to-ceiling mirror. Chris stepped in front of him, holding the new bomber jacket — using the premium supple leather to hide behind. Showing just enough of their ‘modesty’ to look dangerously good together.
The silver of Wyatt’s new piercing and the black ink of Chris’s lion were immortalized in a half-dozen high-contrast selfies. But the art didn’t stop at the lens. Chris felt his man press against him, finding the entrance without hesitation.
The Dutch hunk groaned, arching his back into the raw penetration. No lube, no condom — just ten inches of heated muscle plugging an eager, starving hole. Pre-cum slicked the exterior of the new leather jacket before it finally slid to the floor, forgotten, as Chris captured the hardcore reality of their coupling in the mirror.
Wyatt found the rhythm of the music, pounding Chris toward oblivion. He anchored himself with a hand on Chris’s throat, claiming him with every heavy, ass-slamming thrust.
By the time Christopher’s head cleared, he realized he’d been bred and used by a wild man. Wyatt was still buried balls-deep inside him as they lay tangled on their sides on the leather-covered bed.
Apparently, Wyatt had found the leather duvet cover and the cushions he got made to measure from Victor Moore. How long had he been out for?
Chris just looked over his shoulder, lips puckered in a silent invitation. The nineteen-year-old rolled them over, taking control as he sat back down on the ten-inch horsewhip of his twenty-two-year-old soulmate.
“Wyatt, that was a little rough. But damn, it felt good, too.” Chris smirked at the horny man beneath him. “I wouldn’t mind some bondage shit sometimes. Or — maybe some light BDSM with brutal verbal instructions. Fuck! I missed you jizz inside me, Wyatt.”
He fell forward and didn’t give his boyfriend time to respond. He simply slid back over the throbbing horse-cock and pinned Wyatt to the mattress.
After Wyatt’s second intense orgasm, Chris scooted forward and started jacking off like a madman, slamming his nearly nine-inch dick against the surfer’s outstretched tongue. Wyatt was ready to receive, and Chris didn’t disappoint. With a violent grunt and even harder undulations, de Boer came to a shuddering explosion. He let the ‘man-juice’ splatter into Teller’s yearning mouth, plunging the ‘blocked drain’ with his twitching tool. He made a mess of the long blonde hair, face-fucking the cum down his gullet.
Wyatt’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as he started to gag and sputter. He was mercilessly getting skull fucked by his boyfriend. Hard and heavy. Until the horse-breeding lifeguard’s eyes closed, and he knew no more.
When he woke up, however, he wore a proud smirk. De Boer gave as good as he got — and Teller knew it. The twink lay listening to Wyatt’s frantic heart, swiping his tongue over the nipple piercing of his hero. Stroking his slender cock.
After he felt the man ruffle his messy, bleached hair, Chris looked up with love vibrating through his entire body.
“Wyatt, if we keep this up, you might get me pregnant, and we’d have to get married by Pastor Simons.”
“Can’t we wait for his replacement? I heard he was saying nasty stuff about you last Sunday. Half the Protestant congregation walked out on him.”
“Ha! I’ve got a few texts about that from Wessel and his band members. They canceled their performance at the Wednesday church market. We might drop by and liven up the fare with some satanic rock — suits him right. Good thing I got myself a large lawyer.”
“Large?” Wyatt inquired.
“Fourteen inches, black, fat schlong. Sergeant Tomas’s ‘little’ brother. And twice as brutal as you were. Fuck, I love those two. I’ve got to get them over to teach you some leather bondage tricks.”
Wyatt pursed his quizzical, pensive lips and muttered, “I’d be up for that — if you make it a foursome.”
“Of course. Can’t let you have all the fun, now can I?”
The two lovers fell into each other’s arms and cuddled the morning away.
“I need to get away from this Island more often,” Chris thought, “… if this is what awaits me when I return.”
Later that day, Chris found the approval to build the path down the hill waiting in his postbox. Tacked to it was a sticky note from the Road Department’s head, pointing out that the proposed switchback track would technically sit on community land.
It didn’t matter. Dick Burk’s letter was explicit enough to constitute a legally binding contract — consequential threats, and all. Even though the senior council member didn’t seem to grasp that himself.
Chris knew his rights; his ‘lawyer daddy’ — ‘Big-Mc’ — had already confirmed the leverage. He just needed to document every cent spent and every hour worked. This was going to become an expensive mistake for the Municipality.
That afternoon, the odd assortment of crane attachments finally came in handy, as did the track mats. They protected the freshly hand-mixed concrete paths while Chris put the excavator through its first paces. He used the unusual root-ball cutter to transplant thorny bushes from the top of the steep dune to the areas behind the buried tops of the lower bunkers, creating a natural barrier.
It proved to be a tactical move to keep tourists from wandering onto the gleaming white roofs — the waterproof ‘paint-on’ coating wasn’t designed to withstand foot traffic. The rest of the bushes that he could reach from the top were dug up for replanting later.
The complaints didn’t stop, of course. Jessie and Jelmer had to set up a separate table at the campground offices just to handle the noise, and the Municipality was flooded with hundreds of questions. When the building inspector started wailing again, the county Road Department stepped in to protect the project — same organization, different departments.
In the end, the political overreach shoved Dick Albertus Burk into the bottomless pit of legal reviews. Technically, he was still on their books, but he was effectively removed from the game. Chris didn’t mind; he just got on with the work.
• Continued in part 22 •
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© StrykerJ - May 2026
