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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 22
• A big birthday surprise.
Earlier that day, half the hunky men and women of the Volunteer Fire Department, the local Police, and the Lifeguard brigade — and of course the collection of friends he’d screwed around with across the Island — gathered to admire ‘Goldilocks’. They watched in deep awe as Chris prepped the hexacopter for an aerial group photo centered around the F-550 ‘clown car’. On a sandbar this small, the humongous power stance of the six-by-six was a beautiful absurdity. But it was his.
The surge of raw, manly pride the nineteen-year-old de Boer felt under their collective gaze was worlds away from the toxic sludge he’d endured back North. Up there, his so-called family and a swarm of bitter hangers-on had spent years belittling the ‘runt of the family’ for every perceived flaw. But those days are gone.
Surrounded by his machines and his men, Chris felt ten feet tall — a hell of a feat for a five-foot-seven Dutch stud.
Later that Tuesday afternoon, Chris shooed everyone away from the building site. He rumbled down the dune to Back Road with the borrowed mini-digger. He tore into the concrete-block bike shed and ripped up the paving that formed the parking spots flanking the stairs to town. Every bit of it went through the crusher, transformed into road base for later use. Chris would block the rickety path up the dune with a tall plywood construction fence.
After cutting the wavy asphalt edge of Back Road with surgical precision, Chris bored the holes for the fence posts and dropped the K-rails into place. Everything was engineered and green-lit by the Island Road Department. The sixteen-foot pine logs stood in a rigid, defiant line.
With sturdy girts and a mountain of painted plywood, the worksite was finally sealed tight from the bottom up. No building inspector or ‘prowling Pastor’ could harass Christopher without him spotting them a mile away.
The sun was bleeding low across the balmy sky when Wyatt and Cousin Jelmer came tumbling down the hill. They cut him off mid-stride, sternly ordering the workaholic to kill the digger’s engine and come grab a bite to eat. It was time to rehearse for tomorrow’s prank. Wrapped in the rhythm of his labor, Chris had almost forgotten that Wyatt’s band was set to serenade ‘Little-big-Peter’ for his birthday.
The rehearsal was a complete mess. Chris and Jelmer weren’t used to the heavy, metal-infused country rock that Okko, Pierce, and Wyatt usually blasted. Okko mentioned that the horse-drawn cart had already been decorated by Maren and her girls, who were slated to act as background singers. By the time they were done, the entire Island would know Peter was officially coming of age.
The timid man was going to be mortified, no doubt about it. But the second Chris grabbed Pierce’s electric guitar and started belting out a raw, rock-distorted version of ‘Happy Birthday’, things finally clicked. The impromptu group began experimenting with fusion tunes, taking traditional sea shanties and Islander folk and hammering them into the rhythm of ‘rock ballets’. It was odd, gritty, and surprisingly effective.
The men strolled into town well after sunset, their throats dry and their loins ablaze. After quenching their thirst at a local haunt, Jelmer, Wyatt, and Chris headed up the harbor road for a nightcap and — presumably — a long-overdue cuddle. However, the peace was shattered by a sudden commotion coming from the yacht harbor’s dock. Before Wyatt or Jelmer could even process the sound, Chris had kicked off his pants and dove headfirst into the dark harbor water.
After an unplanned visit to Neptune’s locker, Chris breached the surface again, a drunk tourist under each arm. They’d been ‘fucking around’ and had fallen off the edge of the dock into the deep. Wyatt dove in a second later, helping to secure one while Christopher manhandled the other toward the pier. By the time they reached the ladder, an ambulance, the police, and a fire rescue truck were already rolling onto the accident scene; Jelmer had moved quickly to call in the cavalry.
Together, the first responders hauled the stone-cold tourists into the ambulance, and the guys were pulled aside for a quick checkup as well.
“I didn’t know you were a rescue swimmer, too?” Wyatt asked, still gasping for air. Chris didn’t answer; he simply shoved a finger down his own throat and puked his guts out onto the pavement.
“What the fuck are you doing?” a cute ambulance paramedic barked.
“Swallowed too much salt water…” Chris groaned, wiping his mouth. “Quickest way to get the poison out, ain’t it?”
Ever the Lifeguard, and worried about the effects of secondary drowning, Wyatt insisted the medics check Chris’s lungs. The two of them ended up in the back of a police car, sopping wet and shivering, as they were escorted to the local doctor for a late-night evaluation. Jelmer remotely coordinated the arrival by phone while Wyatt held Chris close in the back seat. Luckily, the checkup was clear — Chris just needed some TLC, a hot bath, and a few preventative meds.
The ordeal put a soggy damper on the night. It wasn’t exactly the ‘hot welcome-home fuck’ the three friends had envisioned. Still, Wyatt stayed anyway, keeping a protective watch over his man. Chris spent the night coughing and spluttering, but by the time the alarm clock rang louder than the throb in his skull the next morning, Christopher was already rearing to go.
He’d dragged Wyatt into the steaming shower, gagging and spluttering on the ten-inch ‘horse-cock’ as he demanded a protein shake of the manly kind from his lover. At the moment supreme, Wyatt pulled out, slammed Chris against the tiles, and pumped his load deep into his man. As the warm water gushed over them, Wyatt held Christopher tight.
“I really fuck’n love you, babe!” he gasped into Chris’s ear. “If the Lifeguard brigade didn’t keep me so bloody busy back East, I’d slam that hot ass twice a day from now until forever.”
“Ha! The next thing you say better be ‘Marry me, bitch’ or I’ll walk out on you, Wytze Antone Theodor Teller! Shit, yeah — I needed this. Nice and rough as ever, Breeder!”
“About that —” Wyatt started to say, but Chris forestalled him.
“Hold that thought, love. After the peak holiday season, there will be time enough to discuss our future plans. But I like the way your… dick feels in my burning hole.”
Chris knew his lover was worked raw on the nude beach. And that in more ways than one. Or at least as scraped thin as his own wrecked hole felt right now. The jobs around the Teller stud farm kept Wyatt just as busy as Chris, and haying season was about to kick off, too. Luckily, Otto Teller had enough seasonal help around the horse farm, and Christopher needed a little more time to align the stars in his favor. Heck, he wanted to do this right — and that meant asking Otto for Wyatt’s hand in marriage, for one.
• Diary: Wednesday morning the 23rd – Time to switch plans.
I am happy I met Wyatt, Okko, and Pierce back at the old dump. I can tell Wyatt is in love with me. And I think — well, no, I know for sure — he wants to tie the knot. I thought I was going to the big city in September, but I think we need to push that back on the calendar. Technical College can wait. Wyatt can’t. Nor can I, come to think of that. But first… Let’s embarrass ‘little’ big Peter a bit. I can already see his reddish face. Today, he’s old enough to hang with the big guys. He’s so fucking ready! We sent Jessie to make sure he comes outside while we serenade the crap out of him. Should be fun.
The two lovers ate breakfast and drove Goldilocks out the back exit of the campground. Taking the scenic route through the forests around town to meet up with Jelmer, Okko, Pierce, Maren, and the girls. Chris didn’t know why he did it, but he’d packed a few sugar lumps and a tart apple before setting out.
Okko and Pierce had driven the embellished covered wagon to the parking lot near the Bunker Museum, just out of town. Thanks to Chris’s frugal skills, the parking space had been cleared of the dumped gravel and crushed seashells. The two Easters had unloaded Thunder near the front of the wagon. The blond Haflinger stallion was plenty strong enough to take the decorated bandwagon through West, past the harbor, to Uncle Mathiases’ place. Apart from the local police, only Jessie knew about the big birthday surprise. His younger boyfriend would probably not dare to show his shocked face outside otherwise.
As Chris and Wyatt pulled ‘Goldilocks’ into the lot, Thunder reared up. The Haflinger stallion wasn’t spooked by the massive yellow truck; he was celebrating. He knew exactly who was behind the wheel. While the men began loading their gear onto the decorated flat cart, Chris sauntered over to the groomed, golden-haired beast. He stood calmly before the stallion and lowered his face; the horse mirrored the gesture, bowing his head to press it firmly against Christopher’s chest.
“Missed me, big boy?” Chris whispered in a low, steady vibration. Thunder looked up and gave a distinct, intelligent nod. Chris presented him with a sugar cube on a flat palm. The horse eyed the treat, glanced at Wyatt, then swiped a rough, wet tongue over Chris’s cheek.
“You’ve got competition, Wyatt,” giggled Okko.
“Dude, I’ve always played second fiddle to Thunder. He loves Christopher,” Wyatt laughed.
Chris backed Thunder into position, expertly hooking the powerful stallion between the burnished hickory tugs of the cart. Maren and her girlfriends had decorated the tarp beams with garlands of spruce, holly, and pine, and embellished it with colorful paper flowers and flags. It mimicked a tradition that was almost forgotten on the Island. While the men wired the amplifiers and tuned the electric guitars, Thunder stood like a statue, though his ‘fifth leg’ dangled a little in the breeze. The stallion was clearly revved up, thumping a front hoof as the group ran through a final rehearsal of the birthday rock-shanty.
Wyatt jumped down — nearly upending his keyboard — and Okko followed, fearing the noise was agitating the animal. But as they drew closer, they saw what Chris already knew: the stallion wasn’t spooked; he was stomping in perfect rhythm with the kick-drum. Chris pulled the steel blade he’d ‘won’ from the ebony thug, Victor Moore, and sliced the apple into thick wedges. He waved the band to keep playing as he fed the blonde beast another treat. Finally, Chris took the reins and led the stallion by the bit toward the main road.
By the time they hit the long stretch of Harbor Road, the Police had maneuvered cruisers to the front and rear of the procession. Tourists lined the pavement, watching an Islander treat that was seldomly seen anymore. Chris took a tactical detour into town, using the exit to help clear a backlog of cars and buses scrambling for the next ferry.
Chris made Thunder pull up at the nautical schoolyard, giving the students and teachers on their morning smoke break a raw, sea-shanty-rock jam. It gave Thunder a needed rest and a long drink before they began strutting down Tower Street. The time was used for a last rehearsal; the group had finally jelled, and the noise they kicked up drew a massive procession of locals in their wake.
The exuberantly decorated cart came to one last, defiant stop on the square outside the Protestant Church. It was more colorful than anything the Island had ever seen before. The girls had pulled out all the stops and used every pride color they could find — stopping short of actually turning the pine and holly floral arrangement into a float that would not be out of place in a pride-month celebration.
Chris signaled the guys, and they ripped into Paul McCartney’s ‘Live and Let Die’. The rock-heavy cover made the Church’s stained-glass panes rumble in their frames. The older Islanders who sauntered past the ‘bring-em-by’ church sale got the hint immediately — this was Christopher’s loud-and-proud protest against the slanderous lies the Reverend had been spreading about him.
The local crowd didn’t mind the noise, though the Pastor certainly did. And he, apparently, wasn’t the only one. Evidently, Pierce hadn’t counted on this impromptu ‘detour’ either. His face had turned to thunder as he scowled at Christopher. He saw it, but decided to let it go for now. But before the stern Pastor could involve the Police, the celebrants had already moved on.
The road in front of Aunt Dianna and Uncle Mathias’s place was blocked by the Police for ten minutes while the group did their thing. They cranked the amps to the limit, the sound waves washing over the house as they played for Little Peet. Well, Big Peter — or rather, ‘flushed-red-and-mortified Peet.’ His family, friends, and his lover, Jessie, had to practically force the birthday boy outside as the music hit the walls. Thunder nodded his head in perfect time as Chris sat atop the stallion, belting out “Happy Birthday, dear Peter” for all the Island to hear.
The band stood tall in their rocker gear, enduring the smoldering summer heat — blazing by Dutch standards, at least. Peter was a disciple of heavy metal and classic rock, so the performance should have been right up his alley. Still, the sheer weight of the unexpected attention was gut-wrenching for the shy birthday boy.
Neighbors and tourists cheered, caught up in the high-voltage surprise. As the song faded, the singers and family began to filter back inside. Okko and Pierce, both slated for work shifts later that morning, caught a ride back on the horse-drawn cart, leaving the core group behind.
Peter was visibly moved, though he was currently busy being slobbered on by Maren and her girls.
“Oh… you thought that was your gift? Okay, cool… I guess we can leave then,” Jelmer joked, leaning against the doorframe. Jessie was already by Peter’s side; he had spent weeks refurbishing an old moped as his personal tribute. Jelmer added to the haul, handing over a fast-looking cross-helmet. Peter’s parents looked on, relieved that the boys were prioritizing their youngest son’s safety as much as his speed.
After the cake was cut and the drinks were flowing, Christopher took on a brotherly tone, beckoning Peter to come sit next to him.
“Peet… Little-big Peter… you’re old enough now,” Chris began, his voice dropping into a serious, grounded register. “You’re headed to a new school on the mainland. You’ve got your own wheels. It’s time we made you look like the badass twink you really are.”
Chris handed over a large, heavy box bearing the ‘Moore’s Leather’ insignia. Peter settled it on his lap, his excitement evident in the slight shaking of his hands.
“What’s in there?” he whispered.
“Open it up and see, buddy… I’ve had it specially made for you,” Chris urged, upping the ante. He watched Jessie, who was watching Peter with a look of pure, raw devotion as the scrap-leather bow was undone.
Out of the tissue paper emerged a masterpiece: a hand-tailored, tobacco-brown leather bomber jacket with a sharp shirt collar. It was rugged, supple, and perfectly scaled to Peter’s small frame. Tears welled in Peter’s eyes, and Jessie’s gaze went misty too.
“Oh, Chris… you didn’t… Man… thanks,” Peter stammered, lost for words.
“Go on, Peet, put it on… let’s see the fit,” Uncle Mathias encouraged with a fatherly grin. Jessie took the empty box, and the room watched as Peter seemed to instantly grow three inches taller the moment he slid into the hide. The brown leather sucked itself around his shoulders, the custom tailoring making him look broader, harder, and infinitely more confident.
“Just as I thought… little boys do grow up fast,” Chris joked, though his eyes were warm.
Peter lunged forward, giving Christopher a crushing hug and a hot, wet kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, man… I really love it. It fits perfectly… and I fuck’n love the mottled-brown color!” He paused, looking quizzical. “How did you even know my size?”
“You have Jessie to thank for that,” Chris revealed. Peter didn't need to hear another word. He flung himself around Jessie’s neck, crushing their lips together in a deep, desperate kiss that went on far longer than a standard ‘thank you’.
The parents and relatives watched in a mixture of awe and quiet respect as the two boys consummated their love right there in the middle of the living room, the new leather creaking as they held on tight.
“Mom, Dad, friends… I thank you all for the great gifts… But the best gift of all is this guy. Jessie and I are in love!” Peter announced, his voice proud and unwavering. He had clearly choreographed the moment, choosing exactly when to plant his flag.
Mathias stepped forward, wrapping a fatherly arm around Jessie’s shoulders. “Congratulations, guys. I’m surprised — to say the least — but I’m damn happy for the both of you.”
Mathias caught Chris’s eye and gave his arm a knowing squeeze accompanied by a wink. Chris just shrugged, his palms up. “Don’t look at me like that, Uncle Mathias… this is the first I’ve heard of it, too!”
“Well, that’s a big surprise… and a hell of a way to teach the Islander youth,” Aunt Dianna laughed, pulling Peter into a fierce hug before doing the same for Jessie.
The rest of the tributes followed. Jan-Timo handed his younger brother a pair of heavy brown harness boots that perfectly matched the vibe of the new leather jacket. From Wyatt, he received a set of high-visibility cross-biker gear. They spent the remainder of the morning submerged in celebration, the house filled with the rowdy energy of friends and family.
In a quiet moment away from the noise, Uncle Mathias pulled Chris aside. “Did you put him up to this? Are you sure this is the right thing for him?” he asked, his voice low and thick with concern.
“Look, Sir, I’m good — but I’m not that good,” Chris answered confidently. “Uncle Mathias, this love thing is still new to me, too. At best, Peet might have seen how happy it makes me, Jelmer, or Wyatt. The rest was all him and Jessie. They found their own way.”
Noticing the lingering worry etched into Mathias’s face, Chris added, “… I hope you’re alright with his choice. You can’t carve their paths for them, Uncle Mathias. Your sons have to make their own calls and eat their own mistakes. All you can do is stand by them and guide them when the seas get rough.”
“He’s right, Mathias. Peter is old enough to know what his heart wants — and he clearly wants Jessie,” Aunt Dianna said, joining them. “Peter has to live his own life. Besides, what could go wrong with a crew like this behind him? He’s got a dozen new older brothers and sisters looking out for him, Mathias. And let’s be honest… the boy looks cool as hell.”
• Dear Diary: Wednesday, June 23rd – Big birthday surprise.
Shit, that turned out even better than I expected. I think even Uncle Matt was finally convinced that this was the right move for Peter. The little shit walked tall all morning — I’ve never seen him look that confident. I suspect Jessie has been ‘toying’ with him a little bit, too; I saw them sneak up to his bedroom a few times when they thought no one was looking. Well, a good warm-up always makes for a great workout.
We’re taking him out on our motorcycles to the nude beach around East later. I’d bet anything there’s a rubber with Peet’s name on it tucked away near Jessie’s ‘birthday candle’. I just hope he can keep that flame lit for Peter. They do look damn cute together. Fuck… seeing them like that makes me want to nail my own surfer dude again. Wyatt’s been eyeing my ass all day — no surprise there, considering I spent the morning sitting on Thunder — but I’d much rather be riding my man. I’ll have to make it count tonight, though. I won’t get another chance like this for a while. It’s back to work tomorrow. Work, work, and more work! Not complaining, though. I have wanted this working holiday for years now. And well, what I found was more than work. I found love like I never felt back home.
That afternoon, on the eastern end of the Island, the guys went swimming near Wyatt’s lifeguard station. It wasn’t strictly the nude beach, but it was close enough to strip down behind the privacy of the windbreaks. Peter, Jessie, Jan-Timo, Skippy, Jelmer, Wyatt, Okko, and Pierce had the greatest of fun, screwing around in the surf and disappearing into the tall grass of the dunes. When Jessie wrapped a beach towel around his naked waist and pulled an arm around a nervous-looking Peter — who was still wearing that brown leather jacket like a trophy — Chris walked a few paces with them. He handed Peter a bulging black leather pouch.
“More gifts? What’s in there?” Peter asked curiously.
“PPE,” Chris smirked, winking at Jessie.
“Huh?” Peter asked, stunned.
“You’ll see. Enjoy it. Don’t force it. Take your time and keep talking — it’ll be fine!”
It took the two young twinks an hour and a half to empty that leather pouch and fill its contents. Several ‘party balloons’ got blown up, and… the photos and videos they took were sent straight to the naughty group chat. Peter was a Virgin no more. In fact, he wore the big-boy pants in that relationship. And Jessie was grinning from ear to ear.
It was hardcore, intense, and brutal. Two by two, or sometimes in larger, tangled groups, the guys popped into the dunes or out into the waves to do some exploring of their own. As big birthday surprises go, this was easily one of the best the Island had ever seen.
• Continued in part 23 •
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© StrykerJ - June 2026
