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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 27
• The hand in marriage.
Christopher snapped a few photos of the fire trucks parked outside West’s fire station, their polished chrome gleaming in the late morning sun. He moved on, capturing a burst of colorful flowers in a roadside garden, the fluffy clouds drifting over the lighthouse in the distance, sheep huddling on the sea dyke, or cows grazing lazily in the polder. These were the typical, everyday Islander scenes that usually flew past in a blur when life was moving at full throttle. Taking the time to actually see them felt like a luxury.
The ‘photo safari’ took Chris across the length and breadth of the Island, but even as he focused the lens, his mind kept pushing him toward his future. Christopher had snagged a few part-time jobs — well, more than a few. Against all odds, he’d made real friends, bought a house, and commissioned a beast of a truck.
All he needed now was the right man to share it with. Chris had been promised a puppy, but the ‘dawg’ he was really after was a tall, blond, Dutch, windsurfing lifeguard who helped his Father run a stud farm on the eastern end of the Island Chris had come to love so much.
From the dream he voiced in a now-famous song to reality was a big leap, to say the least. All his life, for as long as he could remember, Chris wanted to be an Islander, just like his cousins. Finally, his dream was slowly becoming a reality now. Chris’s heart was set on that. But he wasn’t alone in this. He needed Wyatt, and probably more importantly, his father, Otto, to agree to this, too.
But before he could take the next step, Chris felt the need to investigate the subject further. He wanted to know if the other churches on the Island harbored the same poisonous issues he’d encountered in the main town, West.
The villages followed a simple naming convention: the one in the East was Easter End, and the one in the heart of the Island was Middelland. Yet, as simple as the names were, the folk who lived there were steeped in traditions as deep as the North Sea.
As his wandering took him into Middelland, where the main police station stood, Chris stopped in Main Street to snag a few more snapshots of everyday life. He found himself outside a church in the heart of the village and, on a whim, sauntered inside the disused building. As he looked around the Neo-Renaissance building, the architect in him began to salivate; he could easily see himself getting married in a space like this.
There were several church buildings on the Island, including a modern Catholic A-frame where Chris met Father Dirksoan. The priest was a friendly, cheerful man, a bit on the chubby side, who offered Chris a private tour. As they sat in a pew facing the altar, the Father asked Chris the true purpose of his visit.
“I don’t know how to say this, sir,” Chris muttered, his hands twisting anxiously in his lap. “I left the church years ago. It held nothing new for me… my mind wanted more.” He took a deep breath, looking away from the priest’s steady gaze, “… Does your church administer same-sex marriages?”
The Father smiled kindly. “No need to be nervous, Christopher. Honest questions get honest answers, my son. We’ve heard what people have been saying about you. Did you find a… umm… partner on the Island?” The way he hesitated — the tiny, careful pause — told Chris all he needed to know. He was at the wrong address.
Seeing Chris’s face fall, the Father reached out. “Try St. John’s in Hallward. They do a mixed blessing and a civil marriage with a City Hall registrar. I don’t know if they do gay weddings,” he admitted calmly. “But do let me know. I’d love to make it an ecumenical service if you and your man would like that. It would break with tradition — well, no. It would continue the Islander tradition, just in a different format. I can give Pastor Evens a call if you like.”
This was the second time this day he heard that last name. Yet, Chris did not connect the dots, so he answered reluctantly, “… I’ll go and look at the Church first. — Maybe, I don’t know, Father… I will let you know, sir.”
Chris felt a little downhearted but appreciative of the man’s warmth.
“You do that, my son. It’s good to hear there is a little more love blooming in the world.”
Later, Christopher slumped onto a terrace in the Middelland shopping street and fished his notebook from his back pocket.
• Dear Diary: Wednesday the 14th, One o’clock.
Well, I am a little wiser, but I still don’t have a clue. I want to be in keeping with Islander tradition, but flawed social conventions make it unnecessarily difficult. To each their own, I guess, but I am going to ask Otto what he thinks. It’s the least I can do.
I’ve always envisioned a church wedding, though. Granted, that was back when I thought it would be with a ‘nice girl.’ I loved Cinthia’s wedding to that Surinamese guy, Ashwin — they ‘contrasted’ nicely, and he cleaned up even better. Yeah, yeah... I know, I’ve got a thing for black men. So, sue me.
Haven’t heard if I’m an uncle yet. I’m not calling. I don’t think Cinthia likes me much. Nor does Ashwin Adhim come to think of it. Cint’s man is a bit of a black, bad ass, bush-bully. What she saw in him beats me. I just hope my niece or nephew’s name doesn’t start with a ‘C.’ Or I’d throw up.
After a warm sandwich and a cold beer, Chris hopped on his bike and took the scenic route east. He moved at a leisurely pace, capturing several dozen pictures of the dense forests, rolling dunes, and the vibrant cranberry fields. He stopped to frame the old windmill and various other mundane still lifes that caught the afternoon light.
Eventually, he found himself in Hallward, the village where Okko and the extended Hek family ran their horse-drawn covered-wagon tours from. But Chris was more interested in the red-brick, Gothic-style medieval Church standing at the heart of the village, a little off the main road.
It was a rugged brick building that looked plain, yet it possessed a stark beauty all its own, complete with a slate-covered bell tower and a sprawling, ancient graveyard. Despite the depressing headstones, it was hard to imagine a more romantic place for a wedding than this.
As Christopher tucked his camera gear away and stepped inside, he found the building silent and empty, though the heavy doors remained unlocked. He sat on a simple wooden bench, his eyes tracing the lines of the stone-arched pointed windows. There was no stained glass; ‘plain and simple’ were the only words for it. It felt like the ancient building was screaming for some music. The echo was perfect.
Yet, for someone with a builder’s eye, the space held architectural details that made Chris feel immediately at home. He reached for his guitar, pulling it from its case, and let a few chords ring out. He closed his eyes, listening as the resonance of the strings filled the red-brick space, the tunes climbing all the way to the rafters.
Chris thought for a moment, his eyes getting a little moist, and started playing a soulful, bluesy version of Psalm 23: “The Lord is My Shepherd.” He didn’t know why he picked that song. He hadn’t played gospel songs like this in ages. Christopher was more into fusion pop, mixed with anything from folk, or finger-drumming rock, to soulful Rhythm and Blues. Yet, it seemed to fit the moment, his mood, and the location. He wasn’t bothering anyone, since he was by himself, admiring the building — or so he thought.
As he let the slow chords fill his chest, he quietly began to sing. By the time he’d finished the first verse, Pastor Evens and his son, Mark, stepped out from the shadows and joined in. The three of them opened all the registers, harmonizing the chorus of the song until the sound seemed to shake the very foundations of the old medieval Church.
“ ♫ He restores my soul, guides me right, ♫ ”
“ ♫ … in the paths of righteousness, all through the night. ♫ “
“ ♫ For his name’s sake, Oh, I’ll walk that line. ♫ “
“ ♫ With the Lord by my side, everything will be fine. ♫ “
As the last reverberating note faded into the heavens above, Chris dropped his gaze to the flagstone floor. The silence that followed the music was feeling heavy and sacred.
“That was beautiful, Chris,” sighed Mark, his voice echoing in the rafters.
“Yeah, it was. No need to cry about it, son,” Pastor Evens added with a warm smile, “… Father Dirksoan gave us a call. I think we can help you find what you’re looking for, son.”
“It’s not that. This song makes me feel a bit lost,” Chris muttered softly, laying the guitar carefully on the bench in front of him.
“God blessed you with a beautiful voice,” Mark said, stepping closer.
“I think I have my father and mother to thank for that. I don’t believe in God as you do,” Chris replied with a small, defiant smile. However, he instantly straightened his face, fearing he might have offended the Pastor. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Regardless, I’d love to have you liven up a few sermons,” chuckled Pastor Evens. “But tell me, what brought you so far from West?”
“Not that we mind!” Mark added quickly. The horny paramedic had a gleam in his eyes that was undeniable.
“The honest truth? I’m trying to pluck up the courage to ask Mister Teller for his son’s hand in marriage,” Chris admitted, the weight of the confession making his heart hammer. “I want to marry him someday. But seeing the trouble this caused in West — I just don’t know…”
“Well, trust me, Christopher. Otto is a simple man. Smart, but straightforward,” the Pastor assured him. “Just ask, and he will sing your praise to the heavens. As for a wedding venue, we can help you. Father Dirksoan wants to be part of it, too. Just say the word, and we’ll make it happen. Regardless of what my ‘colleague’ in West tends to… well, regardless.”
“Easy as that?” Chris asked, almost skeptical that things could be this simple.
“Why complicate matters? There is only one love. You love a man; I love God. One Love!”
The Pastor gestured toward his son. “Take Marky here. Queer as fuck. I don’t mind. He’s my son, and I love him, flaws and all. No, really — go to Otto and tell him what you want. Stick to Islander tradition, though. Ask for his hand… Now, do you want me to marry the two of you, or leave that to the city hall registrar?”
Chris let out a long sigh, looking between the two men. “Pastor, I don’t know yet. At school, they taught us to break difficult problems into smaller parts. Tackle them one at a time. But… Won’t that get you into trouble with the Church?”
“That’s a smart move, Christopher. But don’t worry about what you can’t change. Around here, we just do what feels right. Going the traditional route with Otto Teller does more than that,” the Pastor proudly nodded.
Mark scooped up the guitar and carefully replaced it in its case. He hung it over his shoulder and pulled Chris off the church bench, hooking a warm arm around his neck. “Come on, Christopher. You look like you can do with a stiff drink… or a stiff —”
“Mark Evens!… Behave yourself! You’re in my Church, for God’s sake!” interrupted a blushing Pastor Evens in a hurry, “… But yes, Christopher, let us offer you some liquid courage in the Parsonage.” Then you can tackle the Otto Teller problem. One step at a time… You’re more than welcome here, son. And… you don’t even have to attend every Sunday if that’s not your thing. Just bring your guitar if you do. — God, Wytze Teller is one lucky man,” chuckled the Pastor softly.
After a watered-down cold drink, with plenty of ice, and a warm homemade apple pie from Missus Evens, and a private talk with Marky Mark in his bedroom, Christopher found himself outside scribbling a note in his battered Diary.
• Diary: Wednesday the 14th, 5:38 PM.
Odd, how time doesn’t slow down for nothing or no one. It just keeps marching toward the future. All I need to do now is talk with Otto Teller. Well, if that’s all, there’s nothing to it. Ha. It’s harder to find the right words for this than it is to write a Top 40 hit. Still, it has to be done. Let's not over think this. I’m just glad not every Protestant Pastor sings the same Psalms.
Must say, I was a little surprised to find out that Mark Evens’ father is the Pastor in Hallward. Both have nice singing voices. Fuck, he’s a great kisser, too! If I weren’t on a mission, I would have sampled more of what he was offering. And I really must explore that firehose of Mark’s someday… maybe even with Wyatt… Well, Otto Teller first. Then I can worry about the rest.”
With the Pastor’s endorsing blessing still ringing in his ears, Chris pedaled toward the eastern edge of the Island, at least, toward the spot where the paved road ended, and the wildlife reserve began. There was one more structure outside the sea-dyke in the east: a youth hostel they called the ‘weed barn.’
It housed large groups in a converted seaweed barn — a monument to a lost trade from the time when seagrass was collected, dried, baled, and sold as fertilizer to the mainland. Beyond that lay a whole other third of the Island, but it was a nature reserve with restricted access. The air here smelled different — less like diesel or sunblock and more like sweet hay and steaming horse manure.
As Chris turned into the long, gravel driveway of the Teller Stud Farm, a blur of golden fur exploded from the kennel. Daisy, the golden retriever, let out a joyful bark of recognition. She was followed by thirteen hungry, playful pups. One of them, a black lab runt named Duke, almost stumbled over his own ears as he raced to keep up with his mom.
Chris laughed, leaning his bicycle against a fence post as the tiny dogs swarmed him. He dropped to the ground with his legs spread wide. As Christopher became a climbing frame for the little ones, Daisy nudged his hand for her share of the attention.
“Hey there, girl… And look at you, Duke. Growing like a weed,” he murmured, his fingers sinking into their soft fur.
He gave each pup a bit of love and affection. Watched from the kitchen window by Maren and, what Chris assumed was, her girlfriend. A butch Latina woman with a tanned complexion. She had short black hair with a purple streak that fell over her face. Christopher stuck up a hand and waved.
As he lifted Duke up, the pup immediately started licking the twunk’s face. Chris gave him his thumb to suckle on and hooked his fingers over his snout, like a baby would do. He walked the pups to the safety of their kennel. But Daisy had already taught the tikes a thing or two. The simple, unconditional love of the animals helped settle the last of his nerves. Christopher took a deep breath, the scent of the farm grounding him. It was time.
He found Otto Teller in the main stable, meticulously grooming a massive Frisian mare. The horse’s coat was like black glass, and the rhythmic rasping sound of the brush against steaming hide was the only noise in the barn. Otto looked up, his weathered face breaking into a slow, knowing smile.
“Christopher. You’re a long way from your construction site today. Wyatt isn’t home, I am afraid. He’s on the mainland for training.”
“True, I am a long way from home, Mister Teller. But I didn’t come for him. I wanted a quiet word with you, sir.” Chris said, stepping into the cool shade of the stable. He didn’t beat around the bush; he’d learned that men like Otto respected a straight line.
“I’ve spent the last few weeks thinking about my future on this Island. About the home I’m building and the man I want to fill it with. I know I’m young, and I know I’ve only been here a short time… but I’m here to stay.”
Otto stopped brushing and leaned against a massive barn roof support nearby. His eyes were sharp, but not unkind.
“Go on, son.” He smiled warmly.
Chris squared his shoulders, looking the man dead in the eye.
“I’m here to ask for your blessing, Otto. I want to ask for Wytze Antone Theodor’s hand in marriage. I love him, and I want to spend my life making sure he’s as happy as he makes me. We haven’t spoken about this. Well, I dropped a few hints, but I want this to be a surprise for Wyatt.”
The silence that followed was long enough for Chris to hear his own heartbeat thudding against his eardrums. Otto looked at the steaming mare, then back at Chris, his expression unreadable. For a moment, the only movement in the stable was the massive Frisian horse nodding its head, as if in agreement.
Finally, Otto let out a short, gruff laugh that broke the tension like a hammer to glass.
“Well, damn! I was wondering when you’d finally get around to it. Of course, I’d love to give Wytze away to someone like you. No — I’d love to give him away to you, Christopher Patrick de Boer. As long as you get that guy out from under my rafters,” Otto said, before falling laughingly over Chris’s shoulders in a heavy, paternal embrace.
“That may take a while, but yes, that was the plan,” chuckled Chris, leaning into the man’s strength. “All I need to do now is find the right moment to surprise him. Do you think he’d like that sort of thing?”
“Son, he’s been whining about it all summer,” Otto said, pulling back and wiping a stray tear of mirth from his eye. “I’m just glad you took the traditional approach. Now, all we need to do is find a venue.”
“I was thinking St. John’s in Hallward. I already spoke with Pastor Evens and Father Dirksoan,” Chris replied, feeling a massive weight lift off his chest.
“Hmm, yeah. That simplifies matters significantly. That’s my Church,” Otto nodded, his voice thick with genuine emotion. “You don’t know how happy this makes me, Chris. Welcome to the family.”
After a celebratory drink with Otto, Maren, and her girlfriend, Jennise, Chris left the Teller farm with a swagger he hadn’t felt before. In fact, Dicky was desperately trying to take a peek beyond the waistband of his jeans. Today’s adventure had made his proud member tingle with delight. Christopher felt like he was walking on air, even as he pedaled his bike toward the isolated dunes of kilometer marker 13. He needed to beat down the eight-and-a-half-inch tool and find a place to decompress before heading back to the noise of West.
Chris parked his red e-bike in the near-deserted rack, the salt air already biting at his skin as the evening set in. He glanced over at the concrete public toilet block, where a few shadows were milling about in the dimming light — tourists, most likely. Or maybe some locals who sought the same kind of anonymity he did. As Christopher walked up the crest of the dune to look out over the North Sea, he snapped a few shots of the setting sun, the orange light bleeding into a bruised purple sky.
It was getting cold and windy, the kind of chill that settled deep in the marrow. The heat of the glory holes inside that concrete block promised a different kind of warmth. Chris grinned, a dark, heavy thrill thrumming through him as he thought about the sin he was about to commit.
“I wish my man were here to share in the filth,” he mused, “… but for now, the craving for a quick, gritty recharge is too strong to ignore,” he thought.
There were a few men inside the cramped, grimy-stained space — smoking, chatting, and seducing. Some were looking to score; others were just there to be seen or do the looking — the dirty voyeurs. Chris didn’t recognize a single face, and he liked it that way. He slipped into the middle cubicle, set his guitar case and expensive camera gear carefully on the cistern, and waited.
The first man took a long look through the glory hole before presenting arms — a long, hairy stick, poorly groomed and thick with veins. He was done quickly, his breath hitching against the partition. Chris didn’t despair; as soon as the first man retreated, the next filled the empty spot. This one was shorter than the first but as smooth as a billiard ball — just the way Chris liked them.
The Dutch twunk serviced them all with a practiced, hungry efficiency. Christopher even managed to snag a few high-resolution close-ups of the casual international encounters: two Germans, a brutal French-Moroccan jock, an Italian stallion, and a Scot. It was a global rotation of heat and friction in the middle of a deserted dune.
The thing about these anonymous encounters that thrilled Chris the most was the difference between these guys. Even though they all had the same lustful goals, they approached the glory hole in their own way. Take the French-Moroccan — and trust me, Chris did. The dude, dressed in a shiny black Adidas tracksuit and expensive sneakers, was quite brutal. Whispering verbal instructions in rapid French, throat fucking Christopher so hard that the boy had to brace himself.
This slick dick felt marvelously warm and wet as it brutally plunged in and out of Christopher’s mouth. So far, the Dutch muscle twunk had only had two guys like this: an Irish bastard, out to rape the boy, and his soon-to-be-married boyfriend.
“No, I don’t mind this,” he thought to himself, a warm buzz radiating through his chest, “… And I’m sure Wyatt doesn’t either. I doubt he lets the pressure in his tank rise too high. Any hole is a goal. That much we have in common. After all, we maintain an open relationship. Sharing our dirty encounters — and learning from them.”
This brutal, short-haired Moroccan ordered Chris to present his ass to the hole. He grunted in French, “Je vais te baiser le cul. Lève-toi et montre-moi ton trou, Bitch. Ou alors je dois défoncer la porte de la salle de bain et te prendre de force?”
Roughly translated, he told Chris he was going to get fucked if he presented his ass. But threatened to break down the door of the stall and take him by force if he didn’t.
Well, Chris was happy to get him off, but he didn’t need a repeat of what he experienced with those Irishmen. And getting his face flushed down the toilet while his ass got sodomized was one step too far. “Although?… This dude is my age and has a schlong that matches his attitude,” he mused. “Not something to take home to mommy, but a bit of rough-and-tumble might just be what’s on the menu tonight.”
He grabbed the brute by the sack, preventing the guy from moving an inch. Chris curled his fingers around the rod and vacuumed the brownish glans between his lips. His tongue did the rest, twirling around and exploring every ridge.
The piss-slit and frenulum got brutalized, and soon the French dude started swearing, “Putain, je jouis. Avale mon sperme. Prenez tout! Engloutissez cette giclée. Oh putain. Fuck ouais. Putain!” He screamed Fuck, fuck yes, fuck as he was cumming for everyone to hear.
Despite the man’s threatening nature, Chris got a lovely mouthful. The horny brute pulled up his tracksuit tuxedo and stepped out of the cubicle to wash his… umm… hands — and wait for Christopher. Heck, the Dutch twunk was actually considering taking the brutal French tourist up on his offer. He liked it verbal and a little rough, and that was exactly what this guy was offering.
However, everything changed when a new man wandered into the toilet block; the remaining shadows seemed to melt away. Last thing Christopher heard was, “Oh Merde. Zut alors, non!” The new guy’s presence alone was enough to send the Moroccan packing in a hurry. The guy chuckled.
The last man presented himself with an oddly familiar flair through the cubicle partition where Chris sat crouched. When the massive, twelve-inch black dong penetrated the dirty hole, Chris took the tool like a familiar friend, his mouth and hands working with a reverence he reserved for only a few. He had met and serviced its ‘little’ fourteen-inch brother, too — but that was back on the mainland. Not that this heavy ebony tool was any less familiar to him. Chris felt him stiffen as he quickly set to work worshipping the thick, veiny cop-schlong.
• Continued in part 28 •
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© StrykerJ - July 2026
