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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 26
• Too busy to make time to relax?
Between the frantic, ‘hurry-up-and-wait’ bursts of guiding tourist cars onto the ferry deck, Chris found sanctuary on the top deck or tucked away in the main saloon of the boat. During these trips, to and fro, he often pulled out his guitar; the strings hummed, and the augmented body provided a sharp rhythm section.
He was a one-man show, entertaining the crew and guests alike. Making sure the music didn’t interfere with his regular duties onboard, of course. The percussive melodies cut through the roar of the ship’s engines during the crossings. Every day, Chris was on a tight schedule, every single minute accounted for.
At the beginning of the week, Chris delivered the sunset-yellow six-by-six Ford F-550 to Zable Fire Equipment. The ridiculously bright ‘clown car’ — decked out in sunshine-yellow with a red belly and reflective blue chevrons — was due for a serious tune-down.
The garage crew was thrilled; the owner was an Islander himself and a custom car buff to his core. He’d pored over the revisions Chris had sketched onto the original plans. The new, rigid truck bed had grown, extending the Ford’s frame by a couple of feet, which surprisingly only improved the beast’s overall proportions.
The expanded black truck bed easily accommodated the removable water tank, which came to rest on the double rear axles. The large tank would be built on a custom, collapsible stand. It could be switched out with other ‘tools’ with considerable ease. At any rate, it kept the setup flexible. The brushfire tank came equipped with remotely actuated fire monitors.
The renders of the rebuilt rig were intimidating; it hadn’t just grown, it had evolved. Behind the cab, a full-height modular box now housed a spare tire, a hydraulic pump, a high-output water pump, and a heavy-duty power converter.
It was the black carbon-fiber reinforcements in the supplied renders that really caught Chris’s eye, adding a lethal, high-tech edge to the yellow paint. The yellow monster was fitted with a massive bullbar featuring integrated bushfire sprinklers and a lighting kit capable of illuminating a football stadium.
And as for the coffered roof of the cab? Well, the six-bladed gasoline inspection drone had finally found its own aircraft carrier. It would become a utility truck like no other. It felt more rugged, slightly arrogant, and ready for anything, just like its owner.
Chris thought he was holding it together. He had just enough time between his ferry runs to the mainland to help out at the tourist board. If he wasn’t buried in first-aid or firefighting classes in the evening, he was busking his way across the Island or working on the bunker barracks. Between those shifts, he was a ghost in the machinery at Uncle Ben’s campgrounds, grinding through maintenance jobs.
The camping guests were absolute slobs; he spent more time clearing clogged drains than maintaining his own physique. He hadn’t hit the gym in days, and the same went for his friends. His heat was cooling; his ass hadn’t been stuffed in a week, and ‘cobwebs’ were starting to grow. No, not in his crack — in the cabin where he was staying. Get your mind out of the gutter!
Work on the bunkers did not stop either. Chris had ordered the necessary materials to finish the paths, as well as a boatload of solar panels and four large power storage packs to make that part of the campsite self-sufficient.
Yet still, Chris convinced himself he was doing fine. But stress is a silent killer, and it was stalking him. He was redlining his engine, the needle buried deep in the danger zone without him even realizing it. It turned out that Christopher was a workaholic, without knowing it. If Wyatt had caught him like this, he’d have put an immediate stop to the madness. However, Chris’s man kept himself just as busy this time of year.
Getting more than five or six hours of sleep was a luxury these days. Chris was up at the crack of dawn and didn’t crawl into bed until every last chore was scratched off the list.
“We, de Boers, always finish what we start.” That was his recurring mantra.
Six days on the ferries had left their mark, though. Yet, cheerful as ever, Chris reported for duty on the early morning cargo crossing. There wasn’t much to do — no tourists to entertain, only the grit-faced truckers who mostly kept to themselves and their coffee.
But the peace didn’t last. That early morning, Aunt Dianna’s voice crackled over the tannoy, breaking the silence on the Island ferry harbor. She was summoning him to the ticket office, ordering him to bring his bike and gear.
Bewildered, Chris parked his bright red all-terrain e-bike against the office and stepped inside. Dianna didn’t waste time; she beckoned him into the back office and sat him down across from her, the personnel roster open on the desk like a battlefield map.
“Christopher, I’ve pulled you off duty for a day or two.”
“But?… Why?… Did I do something wrong?”
“Ha, Soan. Have you looked in the mirror lately?” She leaned forward, her eyes softening but her tone remaining steel. “You have bags under your eyes, Chris. Believe me, you are close to a breakdown. Go to my place. Jan-Timo just got back from his night shift at the ship-traffic center on the lighthouse. He will let you inside. Take a long, hot soak in our bath. Relax a bit. The Island won’t wash away without you! I mean it, Chris! Now ‘vortsik’ stallion. Take some time to recharge… You need it!”
“Sure, ma’am. If you say so,” Chris conceded, his shoulders finally slumping under the weight of his own exhaustion. Practical as ever, he suggested, “… But I need to get to the mainland on Saturday to pick up my truck. May as well roster me in on the first afternoon car ferry or the fast midday catamaran, Aunt Dia. I’ll help out on the late ferry back, too. Keep a large truck space free on the late boat, though.”
“That’s okay, Chris, but take a soak and get your mind to relax — that’s an order!” Dianna chuckled. “I’ll give JT a call to say you’re coming over, soan.”
Weary and a little dazed, he pedaled across the harbor road and parked his bicycle in the walled courtyard behind Uncle Mathias’s place. As Jan-Timo — Peter’s older brother and his cousin, twice removed — pulled open the backyard door, he wore a grin that stretched from ear to ear.
“Mom just called. Drop those clothes and ‘cum on in’.” JT’s grin turned predatory.
“What, here, now?… You’re joking,” Chris stammered, his pulse quickening despite his fatigue. “The sun is ‘bare-ly’ up, Cuz. What will the neighbors say?” he joked.
Jan-Timo guided the weary Chris upstairs, where the steaming bath was already waiting. The tub was a mountain of foam, surrounded by scented candles, throwing off a floral aroma so thick it caught in the back of Chris’s throat. His second cousin smirkingly watched as Chris slipped out of his clothes and slid into the hot bath.
“Don’t get out until your balls are wrinkled and the water turns cold, Cuz. You look like shit! I’ll book you a hairdresser’s appointment, too. Your sack could use a trim, as well,” JT smirked, leaning against the doorframe.
“Stop looking at my bits, unless you need me to plug that hole of yours again,” Chris countered, though the bite was gone from his voice, replaced by the weight of the water. “How are you and Skippy doing?”
“Dude, how rude! Ha… we aren’t as queer as Jessie and Peter, or you and that Teller guy. We just fuck around sometimes. Still, thanks for asking. What’s new with you, Chrissy?”
“Nothing much,” Chris sighed, sinking into the foamy water. “Thinking of asking ‘that Teller guy’ to marry me.”
“Shit, really? Cool! Now shut up and soak that juicy boner.”
• Dear Diary: Wednesday, July 14th. 7 AM. – Just a short entry.
Got told to take a soak in a hot tub today. I hadn’t realized how tense I’d become because of all the last-minute stress. The fact that more and more people are starting to believe the crap being spewed about me in every sermon doesn’t help much, either. I don’t need everyone to like me; I know the rule — if you stick your head above the corn, someone is bound to cut you short. Thank God for people like Aunt Dianna, though. She knows me better than my own… well, that hateful woman.
The warm water and the long shower did me good. I have to remind myself to thank JT properly later. I think I’ll go take some photos across the Island today and see what kind of mischief I can get myself into.
After a forty-minute soak and a long, hot shower, Chris found his cousin in the kitchen eating breakfast. JT was butt-naked, his tanned skin a sharp contrast to the white tile. “Oh. Hi. I thought you’d drowned yourself,” JT said around a mouthful of toast.
“Got a protein shake for me?” Chris asked with a dirty grin. JT didn’t hesitate; he opened his legs wide and wiggled his stiffening dick. “Have at it. Get it while it’s hot, bruh.”
That wasn’t something Chris needed to be told twice. He was on that six-inch fountain of love like a vacuum on a pile of dust. JT had to push him off a few times; he was close to busting a nut, but wanted to make the moment last. His buddy blew a mean dick — JT knew that already — and after a rowdy bit of face-fucking, he fed the man his morning milk.
As they slumped back into the kitchen chairs, JT’s expression shifted, turning stern. “My traffic manager is pissed at you. Those white bunker roofs —”
“Don’t worry about it, Cuz. I’ve seen it too,” Chris interrupted, the builder-brain clicking back into gear. “The roofs are getting coated in muted colors in a few days to kill the glare. Ben ordered matte black solar panels for the front, too. I’ll make sure they won’t impede the view of the tower across the dune.”
“Huh? Has my manager already called you, or something? I think the church community got to him. They are hell-bent —”
“Say no more, JT. I’ve got it sorted without their ‘help’,” Chris sighed, standing up and reaching for his gear. “Thanks for the protein shake, bud. It was fun, as ever! Off to bed with you, Cuz. I’ll let myself out.”
As Chris wheeled his bike through the narrow streets of West, the world felt a little lighter. He stopped at Aunt Petra’s place, letting himself into the tiny bed-and-breakfast. He found Petra in the kitchen, busy clearing away the breakfast plates.
“Hêh,” he greeted in his sweetest Islander dialect. “Got any leftover coffee?”
Petra brewed him a fresh cup of strong, black Peruvian goodness — the kind of jet fuel that would grow hair on your sack. They spent a few minutes gabbing about this, that, and the other. However, when the conversation veered toward Charlotte Mulder and the ‘High-C siblings,’ Chris immediately looked for an exit.
Even thinking about ‘that-woman-who-shall-not-be-named’ made his crack tingle with irritation.
He loved Petra; she was a true de Boer, nearly as tall as he was and just as sturdy. Oddly enough, the abrupt end to their talk released the ‘Perry Otter’ in him, leaving him feeling playful and hungry for the next bit of Islander magic.
As he pedaled past Great Aunt Frida’s place, the matriarch spotted him and insisted he come inside for brunch. While they ate, Frida filled him in on the chaos outside. Uncle Ben was currently directing trucks loaded with extra aggregate for the paths and solar panels for the mainland installation crew. They talked shop over a heavy spread of food until Chris’s phone chirped in his pocket. It was Leo, the award-winning barber.
Leo had an opening, but only if Chris could get there immediately. Knowing the man was usually booked solid for weeks, Chris didn’t hesitate. He jumped up, thanked Frida, and raced his e-bike toward the path into town.
He barely had enough time to swing by his cabin to grab his camera gear and a change of clothes. He still needed to snap the nature shots for the posters he’d promised the tourist board, but the haircut took absolute priority. A man had to look his best when the world was watching.
“So, what’s the big emergency, Chris?” Leo asked, looking a little puzzled as the younger man skidded to a halt outside his shop. The twenty-seven-year-old Moluccan hairdresser had a soft glint in his eyes as he glanced Chris up and down. He clearly liked what he saw.
“Not a real emergency,” Chris admitted, catching his breath. “Well… I’m thinking of asking Wyatt’s dad for his blessing. And JT thought I could do with a full-body trim. The sneaky bastard. But it’s almost lunchtime — I can reschedule, Leo.”
Hearing the boy casually mention the proposed marriage made the barber’s eyes flare open in satisfied surprise. Leo raked a soft hand through Christopher’s dark brown hair. The young man had truly grown into the new style. Weeks ago, Leo had groomed the boy for his first performance with Wessel, turning his shaggy high-school mop into a sharp rockstar look with bold, bleached highlights and clean, trimmed-up sides. It had instantly aged the Dutch muscle twunk in the best way possible.
The short sides and textured, spiky fringe gave him a dangerous new edge that completely shattered the boyish style he’d grown accustomed to for over a decade. Honestly, it looked amazing, despite the few shocked remarks he heard behind his back. Some called it gay. Chris couldn’t care less. Not anymore.
“I am gay, but that’s okay…” Chris mused to himself.
“Bullshit, Chris. Let’s wash that piggy. I can eat while you relax under the dryer. You could do with a little refresher for those golden highlights, too. Park your bike in the alley and let yourself into the back room,” Leo grinned, waving him through.
As Chris walked into the rear of the building, he noticed a second shop, nearly identical to the one at the front but far more private. This one featured a specialized barber chair equipped with stirrups. Leo handed Chris a set of earbuds and immediately set to work. The music — if you could even call it that — had the twunk in a stupor in no time.
The rhythmic rolling waves, whale songs, and Indonesian melodies soothed his body, soul, and mind. The fact that his sneakers and pants got lost in the process and his sack was being expertly trimmed while he sat under the dryer didn’t bother Chris in the slightest; he drifted in the headspace of a man who had finally surrendered control.
It was only when he felt the warm, expert pull of a blowjob from the barber that he slowly returned to the present. As Leo finished him off, Chris felt completely restored — drained, rested, and utterly relaxed.
Aunt Dianna had been right. Chris felt truly blessed that his Islander family looked out for him in such a raw, honest way.
He tried to pay Leo for the work, but the barber refused to take a cent. It wasn’t until Christopher forced a fifty into the man’s hand that the standoff ended.
“That’s for your work and the products,” Chris stated firmly. “Not your other… services. I don’t pay for sex.”
Leo grinned, reluctantly tucking the bill away. Chris gave him a solid bro-hug and stepped out into the blazing morning sun. The warm breeze hitting his freshly trimmed skin did wonders for his headstate.
While Chris sauntered through Tower Street with a grin from ear to ear, Skip called out from the bakery doorway. “Hi, Chris! Hold up, bud. Where are you headed?”
“Going to snap some nature shots,” Chris shouted back. “So… anywhere and everywhere.”
“In that case — can you drop off these cakes and donuts at the fire station? They’re having a bit of a get-together, and we’re swamped here,” Skip asked, already holding out a heavy freezer bag packed with baked goods.
“Sure thing, boss. By the way, JT said hi. He could use a sweet chocolate donut tonight,” Chris said with a nasty wink, taking the bag.
“Cool, I will get my rolling pin over there. Thanks, buddy,” said the baker’s son.
It was only a three-minute ride, and it was right on his way. Christopher felt fueled by the protein, the pampering, and the sun — ready to face the rest of the Island’s demands with a renewed swagger.
The old fire trucks stood sentinel outside the station as the large volunteer crew gathered in the garage. Everyone was there — even Chief Willson, whose son, Drake, had tried to blackmail Chris a little more than a week earlier. It hadn’t been the strippers’ best work, and while they’d ‘kissed and made up’ in a manner of speaking, Chris could see the Chief was less than comfortable with his presence.
The Islander firemen had been watching a training video when Chris dropped the heavy bag of baked goods on the side table. The sight of the donuts drew their immediate attention to the hunky-twunk in their midst. Dressed in his long-sleeved Islander gear, Chris looked like he belonged right alongside these buff, soot-stained guys. As they started grilling him about his drone and the new rig, he pulled up the new sunset yellow and matte carbon-black renders from Zable Fire Equipment.
Seeing the utility truck’s brushfire configuration got the volunteer firefighters’ juices flowing. They crowded around him, and Chris had to explain every high-tech detail of the build. Even Chief Willson couldn’t resist leaning in.
The only question they didn’t ask was: ‘Why?’ It came as a relief; Chris didn’t actually need any of these tactical additions for his ‘daily driver,’ but there was a plethora of other specs he was more than happy to brag about.
When Chief Willson finally pulled him aside, the man immediately began apologizing for the scheme Drake had cooked up. However, he tried to shift the bulk of the blame onto his son.
“Sir, I don’t care who came up with the idea,” Chris interrupted, his voice low and gritty. “We both know where it originated. Some people want fame — me, I guess. Some want glory — you, I presume, for taking a dangerous job like this. Others just want power and control. Please don’t let them dictate what you do. Because he will get off scot-free while you’re left holding the bag.”
Willson had to mull that one over; as usual, Chris had been cryptic, leaving the names of the true puppet masters unsaid.
Mark, another firefighter, had overheard every word. The young, crupped-haired, blue-eyed hunk of a man was adorable, his red suspenders straining against a pair of well-worn bunker pants that sat low on his hips — a far cry from the flimsy stripper gear Drake had worn. Mark saw Chris taking him in and stepped closer.
“We could use a guy like you on the force. When it gets tough, the tough get going, right?”
He grabbed Chris’s muscular arm and pulled him into a sturdy bro-hug, but he didn’t stop there. The paramedic firefighter stole a kiss, then began, right in the middle of the garage, to ‘resuscitate’ Christopher. The French kiss-of-life involved a lot of tongue, and to Chris’s surprise, no one minded — not even the devoutly Christian Fire Chief. In fact, the men started cheering as Mark devoured Christopher with ease.
As they broke apart, their breath hitching, Chris whispered, “Is that a fire nozzle in your pants, or are you planning on ripping me a new one under pressure?” Mark made a dirty, grinning gesture that said it all; the twenty-five-year-old paramedic was more than ready to take his temperature. Chief Willson just grinned and gestured for Chris to follow him upstairs.
In the office, the Chief handed Chris a pager and an orange VHF walkie-talkie, then asked for his CB handle. He pushed a stack of documents across the desk — forms for his truck’s license plate, insurance, and the code number for the roof so he could be recognized from the air. Chris sat down and filled out the line for his callsign: “Goldilocks / CRP-19.”
“Are you sure you want to do this, Christopher? It means more courses on the mainland,” Willson asked.
Chris didn’t blink. “Just point me to the nearest fill-point and the fire location, Chief.”
When Chris headed back down, Mark was waiting for him in the garage.
“Did he pull a fast one on you?”
“Don’t think so. Looks like he wants me to become a reserve brush fire backup. He gave me these,” Chris said, tapping the pager.
“Dude, that’s better than I feared,” Mark laughed. “But read the fine print. This might get expensive. And inform your insurers.”
“Well, Paramedic Evens —” Chris read the name tag, a sly grin spreading across his face, “… You and I might end up working together.” He hooked a finger under one of the suspenders and flicked it.
“Hope so. I’ve got Zable training on remote fire monitors, too. I can be your co-pilot. I wouldn’t mind riding with you, Christopher. We can make music together,” Mark said in a husky voice.
“We’d better start training then,” Chris said, smacking the cute manly paramedic on the butt as he headed for the door.
As he stepped back out into the salt Island air, his mind drifted back to Wyatt. Why should the tall, hunky, blond, beach-bum be the only first responder in the family? With his heart set on his man, Chris knew exactly where he was headed. Mark’s ‘fire hose’ would just have to wait in line. He’ll get his chance.
Before he headed east on his bicycle to snap photos for the tourist board and the campground cabin posters, Chris scribbled in his diary:
• Dear Diary: July 14th, 10:45 – at the firehouse.
Everyone wants a piece of me. Heck, I think I just got shanghaied into yet another part-time job. This time by the Fire Chief. And you know what? I’d love to be part of that crew. Fuck, look at those hunks. And if I wasn’t so deeply in love with Wyatt, that Mark Evens… Damn! I think I just found myself another sidekick. I wonder at what pressure his fire hose runs.
The man could not have been more obvious; he wants in my pants. I’d let him if he asked. Shit, Paramedic Mark Evens is hot! His short, blond military buzz cut was dense and masculine. And the playful longer fringe made me want to grab hold and skull-fuck the butch bastard. But his ice-blue eyes were the real trap, pulling me right in. They looked like they x-rayed my soul.
Hold on! One step at a time, boy. You’ve got photos to take and a bit of Islander church history to explore, Chrissy. I wonder if Wyatt and I can even be married in a church on the Island. And I need to get back to the Teller stud farm today. If only to hang out with Thunder, or Daisy, their yellow Labrador. Honestly, I just hope Otto Teller will consent to this cockamamie marriage thing. I don’t even know how to ask him for his boy’s hand in marriage, for one. But the words will come. I hope. Yeah, sounds like a relaxing plan… NOT!
As he sat on the short yellow-brick garden wall outside the firehouse — scribbling his note — he looked around. A wry grin spread across his face. The exhausting plan might not be as relaxing as Aunt Diana had envisioned, but it was the only one he had. And — if he played his cards right — the two cock swallowing encounters he had this morning might not be the last one this day.
Tonight, on the way back to West, he promised himself he could swing by the toilet block at the dune crossing near kilometer marker 13. To celebrate or commiserate? Chris didn’t know. That was up to Otto Teller to decide. Either way. It should help him feel more alive than he had done in weeks.
• Continued in part 27 •
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© StrykerJ - July 2026
