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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 24
• Stoking fires of desire.
Otto Teller sat on the terrace of The Whaler with Wessel, the two of them jabbering about Christopher. Otto had brought a horse trailer to pick up the horses, ensuring the two animals could find peace in their own stables after the long Sunday trek. It was a strange realization for Otto; as uncomfortable as he had been with the string of boys Wyatt usually brought home, he was genuinely happy with the ‘de Boer kid’.
It was true that Chris had — apart from his rough edges — a way with words. Calling Otto ‘Dad’ that morning hadn’t hindered their relationship; if anything, it had anchored it. Otto wondered, however, when the boy would actually come to see him. In the old Islander folklore, it was tradition for the ‘groom’ to ask the father for the ‘bride’s’ hand in marriage.
Otto had no idea whether a modern, high-octane guy like Christopher would honor that tradition, or even how two gay men went about choreographing an engagement. Like Chris’s own extended Islander family, Otto had no qualms about his son falling for a man like Christopher. He was just happy there was a little more love in a world that seemed hell-bent on making more hate.
The other thing Otto was chuffed about was Chris’s way with animals. The boy didn’t force things; he let the creatures come to him. He saw things in them that longtime animal lovers often missed — or simply forgot to notice after the years turned into a grind.
What Otto could not ignore, however, was the toxic hatred that had flared up around the boy. The dire warnings about the ‘mainland de Boer kid’ had surfaced like a rash. Pierce’s family, who ran the local riding school around Hallward in the east, had come under heavy scrutiny simply because Pierce had been seen making music with Christopher outside West’s Protestant church.
They weren’t the only ones feeling the heat, either. Wessel had noticed it, too. Not that it bothered the club owner much; the lack of grumpy Islanders just gave the tourists more space to crowd his beach club. For Wessel, the scandal was actually boosting the bottom line.
As the two lifeguards trotted along the path toward the campground’s entrance, rounding the corner and moving onto the fields near the beach club, Otto went up to greet the guys. Chris had brought Thunder to a halt just outside the manicured lawns. When Wyatt asked why he’d dismounted so far from the club, Chris just looked up at him with a weary smile.
“Dude, these two haven’t taken a dump in a while. Can’t have some tourist slipping in horse — oh crap, here comes your father. I wonder what’s wrong?”
“Calm down, Chris. I texted him our arrival time. Not everyone is out to get you. Well, I am — but that’s a different matter,” Wyatt replied with a wicked grin.
“Damn. I could sure use a glute massage. My ass is split, and my legs won’t close. Look, I can’t get my knees to touch. Is that normal?” Chris muttered, standing bowlegged in front of the blond Haflinger stallion and the chestnut mare. The sixteen-kilometer track across the beaches had been Christopher’s first real ride.
He gave each horse a cookie and gratefully patted their necks.
“Was that fun? It was a long ride. Thanks for taking me along,” Chris whispered to Thunder. The stallion promptly nodded, as if he understood every word the boy spoke to him. “You two had better take a dump. Bossman is going to load you in the trailer soon.”
The instant winny and the heavy, wet sound of two horses shitting and a relieving stream of piss clattered through the evening air.
Thunder draped his massive head over Chris’s shoulder, pulling him close. The boy simply patted the stallion’s neck and kissed him, feeding the two heroes of this story another treat.
Wyatt, Otto, and Wessel just watched the affecting scene from a distance, the silence of the evening settling around them.
“Good thing horses don’t take sides or listen to homophobic lies,” Chris whispered into the horse’s mane. The mare flicked her ears and leaned across to nuzzle his cheek. He stood there for a moment, hiding his raw emotions behind the weight of their heavy, warm heads.
Wyatt and Chris took the reins, leading the two steaming horses back toward the awaiting trailer. As Otto watched his boys load up the horses, he handed Chris’s bag of street clothes to Wessel. After the boys hoisted the ramp closed, Wessel stepped between the men, ready to usher the two exhausted lifeguards into the club for a late dinner. The Whaler was an excellent place for a plain, filling plate of food and some great music. It was just past seven on a Sunday evening, but the lodge was already bustling with a rowdy crowd of beach-dwellers hoping for some live music.
After a quick piss and wash, the club owner settled the two proud musicians in his private booth, where steaming plates of grub were dropped in front of them. They attacked the buttered peas, carrots, and fried potato slices as if they hadn’t eaten in days. Even the light beers flowed down their gullets with a sense of pure relief.
• Diary: Sunday 04 July - A holiday love.
I’ve spent the day with Wyatt. No, not in that way. Get your mind out of the gutter, Chrissy. The lifeguard was slated to do his duty to Neptune and the beach, and I just tagged along on horseback. We rode like the wind — okay, that’s an overstatement — but fuck, it was nice riding alongside that long-haired surfer stud on a blond stallion like Thunder.
Otto had warned me Thunder wasn’t a riding horse, but I must be mistaken if the beast didn’t have fun as well. I think I’ve contracted a bad case of ‘saddle rot,’ though. Fuck, I’m glad these booths at The Whaler are soft and squishy; my ass is screaming. I almost asked Wyatt to marry me on the home stretch. I can’t wait, but I need to do this the right way. Happy times. I’m looking forward to a shower and a warm bed. What a day. I’m in love — not just a summer fling or an experiment. It’s the actual butterflies-in-the-stomach kind of love.
It wasn’t until dessert was served — on the house — that Christopher noticed it. There it sat, right across from him in the private VIP booth: his modified Martin D-18 Deluxe acoustic guitar. The left-hand instrument was fully decked out with the custom percussion additions he’d dreamed up less than forty-eight hours ago, the wood freshly lacquered and gleaming under the lodge lights.
His custom artist logo, ‘Christ-O-pher’, was cleanly painted across the calfskin vellum of the small frame drum. The drumhead was now seamlessly mounted into the body of the guitar. It covered the exact spot where the tonewood had been fractured years ago when his raging brother Caesar put a foot through it. The custom amplifier lead was already plugged into the sub-snake jack box mounted behind the booth. It connected directly to the main mixing console where Jan, Wessel’s soundman, stood by.
Wessel saw Chris’s mouth drop open in pure shock and proudly handed the beauty over, explaining that the luthier from The Keynote had dropped it off just moments before they arrived. Wyatt was handed a sleek portable keyboard at the table, watching with absolute glee as Chris slung his pride and joy over his broad shoulder. Every eye in the beach club turned toward the booth as Chris’s fingers found the raw, textured sweet spots, drumming and tapping a heavy beat while his thumb strummed the perfectly tuned strings.
Wessel slid a set of heavy titanium thumb and finger picks across the table. With those metal claws slipped over his digits, Christopher’s new performance setup was complete. It felt even better, lighter, and more versatile than the double-necked guitar he had come to love.
Chris just grinned from ear to ear, his fingers flying as he experimented with the unique acoustic tones for a moment or two. Locking eyes with Wyatt, he tapped a crisp rhythm onto the vellum and slid right into the iconic, driving intro of the Beach Boys’ “Sloop John B.”
For a heartbeat, Wyatt simply grinned back at his man, sharing a knowing look with Wessel. The two musicians didn’t need a rehearsal; they just locked into the groove, stretching out an extended, foot-stomping intro to give Wessel’s house band a chance to plug in and catch up.
Hell, they didn’t even bother discussing a setlist. The performance just flowed naturally from Christopher’s soul. Yes, it was very old-school surf music, laced with a gritty, primitive hint of drum-rock vibrating from Chris’s custom percussion instrument, and it kicked off the evening beautifully.
The guys and Wessel’s band turned the rest of the night into a full-blown, high-octane Beach Boys tribute act. Driven by Chris’s clear, soaring tenor, Wyatt’s warmer, seductive baritone, and Wessel’s raspy, melodic bass, they harmonized flawlessly. Their voices defied the Island’s crashing waves and conquered the dark stars above, sounding as if they had been touring as a trio for years.
The rich, layered sound became a literal anchor in the summer air. The upbeat sound was so irresistible that it even drew a bunch of the reluctant Islanders out of the woodwork, again — luring them down the paths like humming bees toward a field of fresh flowers.
As early as the day had started, it ended even later, vibrating on a high note. Chris and Wyatt dragged their weary hides up the dune via Back Road, the salt air cooling the sweat from their long day out. The fire door in the green fence was standing wide open.
“That can’t be right,” Chris muttered, “… I am sure it was locked when I left this morning.” His security instinct was immediately on edge.
“Take a picture, Chris,” Wyatt remarked calmly. Though his voice held a trace of the same caution. He took the ridget guitar case and Chris’s bag of clothes and let the man document what they’d found.
When the two men snaked up the mostly finished zig-zag path, they saw the reflective stripes of a fireman’s turnout gear standing in the shadows in front of Chris’s cabin in the distance. The lighthouse’s sweeping beams caught the fabric, flashing against the dark dunes.
“Know him?” Chris asked Wyatt, his pulse quickening. “I wonder what the hell he’s doing there in the middle of the night?”
As they got closer, the sweeping beams of the lighthouse revealed a hunk of a man, tatted and bare-chested despite the midnight chill. “Odd. It’s way too cold to forget your shirt in the firehouse,” Chris remarked suspiciously. The man shifted his weight. This wasn’t a social call. Or was it? The guy looked like he belonged in a stripper troupe or on a nude fireman’s calendar. ‘Very fuckable’ indeed.
“Wait, Chris, I think I do know him —” Wyatt hissed. “Drake Willmore… or something like that. He lives a few villages down from us. A very Christian family —”
“Drake Willson? As in Fire Chief Willson? I think he works as a shop assistant at the boat shop near the yacht harbor. Say no more. Just play along. I think they call him Snake,” Chris hissed as they drew closer, his eyes narrowing.
The man stood his ground as they approached the cabin porch, his bare chest heaving as if he’d just run up the dune. He didn’t look like he was there to put out a fire; he looked like he was there to start one.
The sweeping beam of the lighthouse caught the thick silver dog choker with a gleaming Christian cross on the end. It wrapped around his thick neck as it dangled against his heaving, tatted chest.
Between that and the reflective stripes on his turnout pants, he looked like a parody of a superhero — raw skin, ink, and metal. Chris’s eyes narrowed; no real ‘smoke-eater’ would wear a metal strangulation hazard like that on a call.
“Christopher de Boer!?” Snake’s voice called out, cold as gravel under a boot. Willson didn’t even look at Wyatt. His focus was locked on the ‘outsider,’ his posture a challenge he presumed Chris would fail.
However, Chris didn’t back down. He felt the adrenaline spike, that old survival instinct against his older mainland half-brothers kicking in. He was a builder; he knew how to take things apart just as well as he knew how to put them together.
“That’s the name on the lease, yes. You lost, or are you just looking for a free shirt?” Chris’s taunting voice was steady, a contrast to the man’s throbbing chest. “I know who sent you. It all makes sense now. Is the Fire Chief in on it, too? He said he wasn’t, but I think he is. Isn’t he? Tomorrow, that door is going to disappear again. Can’t have Pastor Simons’ ‘minions’ breaking in at all hours of the day, now, can we?”
Chris took a fraction of a step closer, invading the space the silver cross occupied. “You’re a long way from the station, Snake. And you’re wearing a lot of jewelry for a man on duty. You’re not a fireman, are you? So what’s the deal?”
“Hell yeah, I am!” shouted the man they called Snake.
“Language! Pastor Simons won’t like that. But — no, you’re not!” Chris called into the night air. “… I’ve heard the girls mention that you’re a dirty birthday and bachelorette party stripper who can’t keep it in his pants. Wanna fuck me?” Chris spat.
“We’ll fuck you up and kick you off our Island, da Whore! We have a moral obligation to this Island, de Boer. Leviticus 19:18 tells us to love our neighbor —”
Drake started to say, but Christopher was two steps ahead of him. He had expected this playbook from the Pastor. But not from a dirty stripper like Snake Willy Willson.
So Chris calmly interrupted and finished the sentence for him. “— as ourselves. Matthew 22:29. Yeah, I know the verse, Snail. No need to preach; I am no atheist,” Chris interrupted, his voice dripping with icy sarcasm, “… But there is more to Leviticus. He allegedly said: ‘Do not seek revenge or bear a grudge against anyone among your people…’ This does look a lot like revenge, though, Snail. Or whatever your name is. Damn, you’re slow. Missed a few Sunday school lessons, have we?”
Christopher leaned in, eyes locked on the fireman’s. His voice was still calm and steady, but it carried a sharp, defiant edge. “But maybe you skipped the part in Galatians 5:14? ‘For the entire law is fulfilled in keeping this one command.’ Or how about James 2:8? If you really keep the royal law found in Scripture, you’re doing right. But if you show favoritism — or, say, stand on a man’s porch at midnight looking for a fight — you sin and are convicted by the law as lawbreakers. Didn’t Pastor Simons tell your father that?”
Chris didn’t blink, letting the weight of the words settle in the salt air.
“Look, Drake, I know who’s behind all these attacks. Him and he alone. And I ain’t talkin’ about Jesus. Sorry, but to me, that’s just a fictional character out of an outdated book.”
Flabbergasted and winded, Snake took a step back, but Christopher moved forward in lockstep. The big man tried to find his footing, and since discussions had failed to bring the point home, Snake took a swing — and a miss. He switched fists and tried a desperate uppercut. Again, he caught nothing but air. Snake lost his balance, and Chris planted his knuckles deep into the ripply breadbasket of the tatted hunk.
Simultaneously, the metal-tipped toe of Chris’s riding boot connected with the low-hanging fruit of forbidden desire. The blow made the man stagger, his breath escaping in a pained wheeze. As the stripper doubled over in agony, Chris caught Wyatt’s eye.
Wyatt moved like a shadow, promptly locking the man’s thick arms behind his back in a crushing hold. Christopher balled his fist, ready to knock the venom out of Snake’s mouth, but he stopped when his knuckles lightly brushed the man’s temple. He could feel the heat radiating off the misguided intruder’s skin.
“You’re not worth it. If you only listen to half the story; you’ll never learn the whole truth, Drake Willson!” Chris growled. “Let’s go inside. I’ll tell you what Daddy, Burk, Simons, and all the rest failed to mention. Heck, I’ll let Master Teller whip your ass raw before we fuck the truth into your sorry ass!”
It sounded like a lethal threat, but Chris had other, more intimate plans for the man’s re-education.
“I… I… I’m not gay!” Snake spluttered, his voice cracking as he strained against Wyatt’s grip. Oddly enough, though, Willson didn't seem that opposed to the idea, either.
“Not our problem. We are… Deal with it! You’ve fucked up!” Chris shouted, moving offensively close until their noses nearly touched. He dipped his hand into the waistband of Snake’s fireman stripper pants. Unhooking the red reflective suspenders with his free hand. Probably the only bit of gear that genuinely belonged to an Islander firefighter. And Christopher closed his fingers around the base of the already erect shaft, tightening his fist like a vise grip.
Despite the pain and the protest, Snake was as hard as a rock. Chris didn’t hesitate; he undid the belt and top buttons, then ripped the Velcro stripper-pants clean off the man’s naked ass, leaving him exposed to the lighthouse beams.
“… Go on, Master Teller. Take this one inside. Hook him into the sling while I get the whips and paddles out. Let’s fuck this piggy to hell and back. Maybe he’ll learn not to listen to the devil in the Lord’s cloak.”
The man didn’t even put up a struggle. Snake came willingly. He just started leaking precum over Chris’s arm as the twunk dragged the horny hunk toward the spare bedroom by the balls. As Drake Willson eyed the heavy-duty bondage equipment, he buckled, his knees hitting the floor.
However, Christopher — still crushing the man’s nuts in a punishing grip — knew this play. Snake was trying to wriggle out of the hold and make a run for it. Chris twirled him around with a snarl and ordered Wyatt to pin him, ass up and face down, over the five-point sling. When Snake didn’t comply fast enough, he got slapped around the ears. Hard and brutal.
Standing behind the stripper, Chris reached for a pair of tight leather police gloves, snapping them on to increase his traction. He grabbed the man’s nutsack again, yanking the balls up and back with enough force that gave Snake no recourse but to lie his chest flat against the sling to find relief. Chris smacked the naked buttocks of the twenty-five-year-old, the skin reddening instantly, and caught sight of the brown ring around the man’s starfish.
“Shit! Didn’t Mommy teach you how to wipe your butt? Or are you just a pig that loves to get fisted?” Chris snarled humiliatingly, a real venomous edge to his tone. Wyatt followed up by slamming his bare hand onto the other glute; the impact reverberated through the bunker. The sound was so sharp it seemed to rattle the patio doors — or perhaps that was just the wind picking up outside. Either way, it set a brutal, uncompromising tone for the night ahead.
Chris came back with a trash bag filled with rubber gear they had snatched from the bikers who had accosted Little Peet a few months earlier. The garments stank worse than a filled condom left out in the sun. He hooked an old rubber mask over Snake’s weary head and fastened the bondage neck-belt tightly underneath the sling’s backrest.
Wyatt hogtied the stripper’s hands behind his back, while Chris bound the ample biceps tightly with rubber straps. If they had been made of leather, the sight would have turned Chris on, but the reeking rubber served a different, more degrading purpose.
Snake quieted down when he felt the two muscular hunks wrap his ass in a rubber gimp jock, his sizable pornstar stripper dick poking out from under the waistband. It read ‘rubber fag’ on the front and ‘use me’ on the back. Chris grinned at his boyfriend and handed him his riding crop. The thing had been banging against his leg as it sat in Otto’s boot all that Sunday; it was still nice and warm from the friction of the ride.
Christopher looked on in shock as Wyatt’s first strike hit home. There was real, unbridled anger behind the attack. Wyatt, catching Chris’s look of amazement, tempered the second hit on the other exposed buttock with a series of three mocking love taps. However, what followed turned both cheeks bright red in an instant as Wyatt found his rhythm. Chris took up a full-leather flogger and began ‘stroking’ Drake’s shoulder blades and back with the heavy weight of the falls.
All the while, the two men issued a series of threats and demands that the so-called fireman could not ignore. If he tried to argue, the verbal attacks on the misguided man only intensified. Soon, his body was covered in a cocktail of spit, drool, and sweat. He was trembling, constantly begging to be released, but Chris noticed there was no real conviction behind the pleas. The ‘Snail’ was finally starting to like the taste of the salt of the earth.
“Release you? Not until we show you what real love is!” Chris growled, the leather flogger resting against his shoulder.
“Heck, you tried to get Chris to expose himself just so you’d have a reason to file a police report,” Wyatt added, his voice low and dangerous.
“You know, Drake…” Wyatt placidly explained, “… Pastor Simons never actually talked to Chris. He just learned we like men and assumed the worst. Wait until we let the congregation know you rape girls for fun and justify it by calling it a stripper act.”
Christopher’s eyebrows flared up. He didn’t know this. Maybe Johanna, Maren, or her girlfriends spoke about this at home.
“Well, guess who’s next to get ‘violated’?” Chris taunted instantly, leaning down to Snake’s hooded ear. “And it’s not even your birthday yet.”
While the men teased, taunted, and flogged their new toy, Drake ‘Willy Snake’ Willson just lay there, letting the words wash over his lost soul. What he couldn’t see through the rubber mask was Chris signaling to Wyatt that he was ready to hit the sack in the next room. And Willy? The ‘Trouser Snake’ finally stopped crying for mercy and dumped a heavy load over the floor.
No one could hear him scream in ecstasy, though. The wind had picked up, and a rain squall was lashing the bunker from all sides. The boys took turns getting ready for bed. While one brushed his teeth, the other would talk some ‘sense’ into the leaky Snake. When Chris was finally ready to call it a night, he stuck a lubed finger up Drake’s passage. He prepped the prostate for a different kind of torture — a remotely controlled love-egg.
Chris set it to its maximum intensity and randomized the ‘playlist,’ giving the stripper something to think about while the boyfriends went to sleep. They listened from the next bedroom as Snake was remotely attacked by a horde of angry, buzzing butt-bees. The dude moaned and groaned louder than the lashing rain that persisted all through the night and into the next day.
And the stupid thing was, Willson was free to go. Chris had loosened the belt tying him to the sling ages ago, and the sex toy only needed one good push to plop out of the love canal. But the man just lay there, enjoying the ‘preachings’ Christopher and Wyatt had hammered into him. As the battery finally died and the two Alpha tops pretended to be asleep — grunting like pigs in a blanket — the stripper finally got up and left.
He dropped the mask and the toy but kept the arm straps and the rubber jock. He quietly stepped out into the storm as God, Zeus, or Mother Nature punished his sins with a series of lightning bolts that pursued him across the Island, away from the fabled Pastor and his hate sermons.
Had Chris just made another enemy, or did he finally get through to the ‘Trouser Snake’? Only time would tell. That Wyatt had enjoyed the show of strength and knowledge was evident; he pushed the blankets back and rode Chris like the wind.
• Continued in part 25 •
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© StrykerJ - June 2026
