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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 29
• A trio to strengthen the bond of matrimony.
Christopher de Boer had never — in all his nineteen years on this earth — felt so fucking alive as he did right now. He’d finally figured himself out — his future was crystal clear. Every inch of the path ahead felt like it had been paved with crushed seashells and the raw, electric thrill of the unknown. Chris was finally home — truly loved and in love. It was enough to make a guy want to skip, though he’d settled for a proud, cocky swagger instead.
He’d been told he needed to take it down a notch and relax a bit, but the only way he knew how to do that was to keep busy. However, what Chris had learned — after weeks of relentless attacks that had nothing to do with his birthplace or the fact that he was officially a card-carrying gay man — was how to shut out the static.
There were five long days until the open house event and ten until the final inspections on the bunkers. With a bit of sharp time management, he had just enough space to enjoy life exactly as it was supposed to be.
After a much-needed cardio workout on Monday, Chris moved his equipment down the hill and started work on the final piece of the puzzle. The new bike shed was half-buried at the foot of the steep dune — a simple structure, really. Nothing to it. Just three more half-walls on a thick concrete textured base with an upper level of windows on all four sides to keep it airy. The internal metal roof supports were already in place, and the plain wooden trusses would finish the building in that classic Islander style: yellow sandstone bricks and red clay roof tiles.
But before that day’s work could even start, the ‘Bunker Siege’ had already begun. Apparently, there was a frantic ‘internal war’ raging at City Hall — a bunch of feigned attempts to paint the ‘white boy’ as black as they could get away with. And for what? That was the million-dollar question Chris still couldn’t answer. One thing was sure — it had nothing to do with who he liked to bend over or who he was planning to spend the rest of his life with.
The newly installed no-parking signs had been wrapped in burlap at the local police’s order, but those six gleaming metal posts were still cock-blocking his new parking spaces. Chris didn’t give a damn. He just hauled his scaffolding into place and got to work, his headphones blazing and that ‘Proud Rainbow Unicorn’ logo gleaming on his neon-pink work hoodie. A cheeky gift from cousin Peter. If the locals wanted a show, he was more than happy to give them a fabulous one.
He’d expected the lead-up to the final inspection to get petty. Still, the sabotage had already started under the cover of night. It was death by a thousand insignificant cuts — or at least, that’s what the local prudes were aiming for.
In the middle of the night, some assholes had spray-painted a ‘required’ fire hydrant location right in the middle of his new access path up the dune, a pathetic attempt to strangle the campground’s accessibility. They’d even marked out a pipe route that would’ve gutted his brand-new parking lot and torn up half of Back Road.
“That’s not my problem,” Chris muttered to himself. He kept his rhythm steady, bricking up the walls as he drowned out the world’s noise with the heavy, pulsing bass in his ears.
When Wim Koiker arrived, the man looked ready to blow a head gasket over the city’s impossible demands.
“Can you believe this, Chris? What a mess! They want me to rip up your new parking spaces — and half the street — for a single fire hydrant.”
“Actually, I’m okay with it,” Chris said. The builder heard the words but didn’t seem to believe them.
“Have you given up the fight, Christopher?”
“HELL NO! But remember, we don’t know who painted these markings or why — so this isn’t our fight, Uncle Wim. But there is a much simpler solution. Let me show you.”
Chris didn’t argue; he just took a yellow wax crayon and redrew the map on the road. In thirty seconds, he’d relocated the hydrant to a spot that was legal, cheaper, and kept the paths clear. It was a professional execution of a bush-league problem.
“Dang, Chris. That would solve it! And for less than half the cost,” Wim chortled.
“Ha — don’t forget my engineering fee! And while you’re at it, repave Back Road at their expense. But give Chief Willson a call; see where he wants the darn thing. There are no other hydrants nearby, so this might just be a ‘blessing’ in disguise for the houses in West too.”
“You… do you? — Is this one of ‘their’ ploys again?”
“Charge ’em double for their trouble, Wim,” Chris joked, “… I’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
By mid-week, the ‘Not-My-Problem’ mantra had become a very effective suit of armor. Christopher totally ignored the ‘church minions’ who swarmed the building site each day, leaving Uncle Ben to chase them off the dune like a territorial wolf. Chris just kept repeating himself: “That’s not my problem, sirs. I’m just the hired help.”
Chris wasn’t as lucky with a particular group of entitled locals, though. They had all kinds of complaints about the new bike shed, claiming it was an illegal construction that needed to be torn down immediately. Even though it was just a replacement for the ugly concrete-block structure that had stood only a few feet away.
Heck, everyone and their uncle came to Back Road to ‘bitch and moan’ at Christopher. The only people he didn’t see were Pastor Simons and his right-hand man, Councilor Dick Albertus Burk.
The twunk was just rebuilding the old, ugly concrete-block shed, so Chris simply sent the crybabies to City Hall to file a formal complaint — knowing damn well it would take the bureaucrats weeks to process it. He had the permits to rebuild and the Road Department’s blessing; he was untouchable.
Every day, after eight or nine hours of work, Chris headed back up the dune, feeling like he had won yet another day. But his job wasn’t done when he put down the trowel. He spent his evenings organizing the volunteer party and the local market fair with the ‘Gay Team’, watching the final plans snap into place. He kept himself busy with the logistics of crowd-control barriers and rented market stalls, going over the details with his friends and ensuring everything was tight.
Even the posters announcing the Harbor View open house got scrutinized by the curious locals. Some ‘people’ didn’t like it — not one bit. It was obvious that Pastor Simons’s influence was definitely waning, though. The church crowd tried their damnedest to get City Hall to pull the event permits, but for once, the powers that be put a foot down, and stopped the nonsense. The event was happening, whether the prudes liked it or not. The era of construction and camouflage was over; the bunkers were done, and it was finally time for the Island to see what Christopher and his friends had actually built.
• Dear Diary: Thursday, July 22nd, 3:30 PM.
I’ve finished early today! Well, that’s the last piece of the puzzle finally put back together. Koiker’s road crew repaved Back Road and installed the hydrant with Chief Willson’s blessing. The stern man and his stripper son are actually starting to grow on me. I signed the volunteer Fire Department paperwork and got some basic training to operate the VHF handheld.
As for the latest ‘obstructions,’ I’ve repurposed those no-parking poles to set up a taxi stand and five two-hour parking spaces. A good compromise, if you ask me. The bike shed turned out even better than expected — it definitely looks more traditional than the ugly concrete brute that was there before, despite housing twice as many bicycles.
The open house is planned, and the security crew is in place. All I need to do now is find the right words to…
Chris startled. He stood bent over the kitchen table, lost in writing the diary entry, when two — very strong — arms snaked around him from behind. They hooked deep under his armpits, and those nimble fingers clasped tight behind his gritty neck in a punishing Full Nelson. Totally immobilized, Christopher felt a very familiar, heavy bulge press hard against his bubble butt. A hot — and even wetter — tongue started circling his black earring, breathing fire into his ear before the lobe was sucked deep into a hungry mouth.
As Christopher looked stunned over his shoulder, his nose brushed against Wyatt’s. Their lips met, and as the Full Nelson unlocked, the blond surfer drove a hand deep into Chris’s mortar-splattered work pants at the front.
“Oh god, yes! Wyatt… I’ve missed you… Careful with the goods, Stallion,” Chris moaned as those long fingers took a firm hold.
“Shit, Colt. I wanna fuck that ass… right here… right NOW!” Wyatt groaned huskily.
“I’m not stopping you, Bitch! Have at it — take that ass. Hard!” Christopher laughed at his lover, unsnapping his waistband as the zipper ripped open of its own accord.
Wyatt reached around and jerked nearly nine inches of heat to life, his voice a low vibration of filth and profanity. Chris just grinned — a dirty, beautiful smirk — and arched his back, bracing himself against the dinner table. It’d been far too many days since they’d last hooked up, and he needed to feel the full, ten-inch raw length of the man he loved.
Skipping the foreplay, Wyatt spat a thick, rude glob of spittle between Christopher’s buttocks. He penetrated the hot abyss in one go — hard, raw, and balls-deep. He kept Chris pinned against the onslaught, his dominant weight making it impossible to escape. Once those two sets of nuts collided, the initial shock faded, replaced by a rhythmic, heavy heat. It took the boys a few moments to sync up, the friction turning from a sting to a burn.
“Dang, breeder. Ouch!”
“Sorry, love. I just couldn’t wait. Man, you’ve got such a nice, fuckable ass.”
“Yeah, well — don’t break it! I’ve only got one! And we might get another visitor soon. I texted Mark Evens to go over the first aid plans for the event on Saturday. Do you know him?”
“Mark Evens? Shit, yeah, I know the bastard… Or at least I thought I did.” Wyatt growled. “I believed he was my best friend. Growing up around East, we did everything together. But he left me hanging.”
“Everything?” Chris asked with a knowing, dirty smirk. He felt his lover slow down as Wyatt explained what he knew about the man.
“Ha, well, almost everything. As kids, we looked at hardcore nudie magazines left by the tourists. Or we’d jerked off together in the old bunker complexes in the woods. Heck, I learned to suck cock from him! But things cooled down considerably when he caught me fucking my first tourist-pussy. We were young, dumb, and…”
“… Full of cum?” Chris finished for him as he felt Wyatt slide out.
“Hell, yeah. And we weren’t even of consenting age back then. Lost track of Evens after that.”
“Ah… makes sense. You stupid Islanders all think you’re the ‘only gay in the village.’ Fools! You do know even his father calls him queer as fuck, don’t you, Wyatt?”
“What? Really? Pastor Evens? How do you know him and Mark?”
“I’ve had Mark Evens, done that pointy fire hose. A nice, tight fuck. I… umm… I like him. The man is my type!” But as Chris looked over his shoulder at a bewildered Wyatt, he quickly added, “… But only as a distraction. You’re my preferred ride, Wytze Antone Theodore Teller. I love you. And I’m glad you’re not the jealous type. I’ve got so much left to learn about being gay… and well, maybe we can do him together sometime. Sounds like you’ve got some catching up to do with Mark, too.”
Wyatt nodded, contemplating what life could have been if they had taken their friendship a few steps further back then. Chris righted himself with some difficulty and faced his man. His eyes wandered between Wyatt’s ten-inch, rock-hard length and that long-haired, blond surfer face, a smirk playing on his lips.
“I think I know your type, baby,” grinned Wyatt, “… You’re into the taller, older brother type. Nicely built, smoothly shaven, with a hint of kinky leather, and versatile as fuck. You prefer them a bit naughty or rude, with a verbal edge that can scare the shit out of you. Am I right? Or am I right, baby?”
“Spot on… But… if you call me baby one more time, I’m going to…” Chris mimed a sharp snip with his fingers. “Don’t make me turn you into a gelding, you foul-mouthed breeder. We’re only three years apart. Stick with ‘Colt’. I like your long horse cock, Stallion.”
“Are we done, or…” Chris started, asking his lover.
Wyatt just grinned and squatted between those eager cheeks.
“Hawk-tuah… Ptui!” The wet, heavy spit landed perfectly, the heat of it slicking up Chris’s back door as Wyatt’s well-practiced tongue followed the moisture inside. He ate Chris out like a pro, making the boy squirm like a freshly caught fish lying in thrashing delight on the dining table.
As Wyatt’s knees cracked when he stood up, Chris handed his man a condom and a small bottle of lube.
“You want me to? Huh?… I don’t like to —”
“Just try this one. It can’t hurt to be more careful. Heck, we’re not even married yet,” Chris said with a knowing grin. He watched Wyatt’s eyes light up as the foil was ripped open. It wasn’t your average rubber; the thing was midnight black, ribbed, and thickly studded. It looked almost too cruel to be pleasurable, but damn, was Christopher wrong about that.
Wyatt drizzled a thick glob of lube over the tool and grinned widely. The feel of it in his hand made him rethink his life’s choices. Just as the leather clothing did for Chris, this rough party balloon gave the horse breeder an odd sense of power. He didn’t even need to aim; the tip found the boy’s back passage with ease as he carefully plunged forward.
The effect was instantaneous. Christopher gasped for air, his lungs hitching as he felt every ridge, every knobby stud, and every pulsing vein push into him. First, past the outer ring, then pumping hard against his prostate, before finally sliding past the second sphincter until Wyatt could go no deeper.
Not that he didn’t try. As slow and careful as the initial coupling had started, that’s how wonderfully rough and wild it became. He screwed his man with a manic, joyous intensity, treating him like a dirty, irresistible prize — a total ‘cum dumpster’ completely surrendered to the thrill. Wyatt’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as he slammed forward with every ecstatic thrust.
He, too, felt every stud press down and rake against his steely length. He clamped a hand over Chris’s throat with a playful, commanding pressure, making the boy’s face flush a deep, blissful red. For Christopher, the only thing missing was seeing Wyatt in a pair of leather chaps or a rough, spiky harness. He just hooked his hands over the naked, pumping buttocks and pulled, helping the man drive into him even rougher.
The patio doors slid silently open. It didn’t so much as click — the soft, mechanical sound got lost beneath the rhythmic slap of skin on skin, Chris’s choked, gurgling gasps, and Wyatt’s heavy, pounding breaths.
Mark Evens stepped in, his paramedic uniform still crisp, his heavy boots silent on the floor. He stopped dead. He’d seen the messages on the ‘Gay Team’ thread; he knew the tall blond ‘Stallion’ and the athletic ‘Colt’ were a package deal, but the data on the screen was nothing compared to this nasty sight in the living room.
From his vantage point, he saw the curve of Chris’s spine arched dangerously high off the table, his face flushed a deep, sunset crimson under Wyatt’s gagging hand. But it was the black, ribbled texture of the thickly studded rubber — and the way it disappeared into Chris with every violent, manic shove — that made the air catch in Mark’s lungs.
He didn’t cough. Mark didn’t announce himself. He just felt his own pulse begin to hammer against his shocked breathing, his eyes locking onto the raw, unpolished sight of his childhood friend ravaging the man he’d screwed around with days before.
“Ooh, shit. Sorry… I didn’t know. Fuck, Wytze — don’t break him. I’ll wait outside until you’ve finished —” Mark gasped in shock.
“You’ll do no such thing, Marky Mark! I’ve got a spare rubber. Slick up and slide in. Let’s sandwich this pry bar. Help him pound me out. I want to feel that rubber tear!”
“Hi Mark. Good to see you, buddy. Don’t just stand there, man,” gasped Wyatt, glancing at the bewildered paramedic. “Fancy a trio? Chris told me you like to fuck ass, too. It’s been a while, buddy. Don’t be shy. We’re all friends here.”
“Yeah, but —” Mark flushed. Christopher knew Mark was about to blurt out that Chris was supposed to be asking Wyatt to marry him.
“Shut up, Marky Mark. Drop those pants. Put on a rubber glove and show Wyatt’s ass how it’s done! We can talk shop later! Not now!”
“But… but… I don’t want to get in between you and your…”
“Stop talking, Evens. Let the ‘headmaster’ do the thinking for once. You’ve complained there aren’t too many opportunities to — how did you put it? — walk the dawg on the Island. Well, Wyatt is more than happy to play with your bone. So strip! Put on a hazmat suit and let’s have some fun, buddy.”
Christopher could see the internal conflict the twenty-four-year-old Mark Evens was struggling with, and he completely understood. Mark didn’t dare drive a wedge between Chris and his lover. But before Chris could express this without giving away the plot — just like Mark was trying to do — Wyatt intervened, still sliding in and out, rolling his hips as he seamlessly fucked the absolute crap out of his man.
“Look, Mark. I’m sorry you caught me taking that horny ‘dune rose.’ She was ready to get her ‘rosebud’ pierced that summer. You know how wet those tourist sluts get when the sun is out,” Wyatt chuckled warmly, pausing his deep pumps to look over at his childhood buddy.
“I just wanted to try it. She offered her anal virginity to me, and I thought it’d make a fun story to brag about. If I’d known you wanted a piece of me, too —”
“Yeah. Well, I would have — but I figured you liked…” Mark mumbled, his face softening.
“Guys, why are we still talking about the past? How old were the two of you when this happened, anyway? Here’s your perfect opportunity to kiss and make… babies,” Chris chimed in with a bright, dirty grin.
“Humpff… but what about Chris?” Mark asked Wyatt, a light scowl lingering on his face.
“Ha! Crissy has a point. Back then, I was actually way too young for her — or you, for that matter, Mark. Look, Evens, Chris and I have an open relationship. We share everything… and everyone. He doesn’t mind one bit. From what I’ve heard, you’ve done him already, so now it’s my turn to share the fun. Help me out here, buddy. Just like old times,” Wyatt said with a wide, bright smile.
Mark was already folding his uniform into a neat stack after closing the blinds in the cabin. He approached the two, who were still docked together on the kitchen table. Chris handed him the knobby black condom, and Wyatt hooked a sturdy arm around Mark’s waist. The two childhood friends looked at each other for a long moment, kissed, and moaned in pure, happy relief at the same time.
The paramedic pushed Wyatt down against Chris and drove his knobbly, rubbered dick with force into his long-lost friend. The horse breeder screamed with delight as he felt the firehose swell under pressure, capturing him completely between Chris and the man standing behind him. Marky Mark grabbed the Stallion by the hips and pulled him over his nine-by-five fat inches, making Wyatt’s ten-inch horse cock slip and slide wildly inside the squealing boy on the table.
Wyatt didn’t last long in the sandwich. His eyes rolled back in his head as the unavoidable, ecstatic orgasm made his muscles tense up and his knees grow weak. With some loud, intense curse words that made the preacher boy’s face go totally crimson, Wyatt filled the textured cocksheath to the brim. Chris could feel every single pulse as his ass got tickled to death from the inside out, laughing with pleasure as Teller finally had to tap out because his best friend wasn’t quite there yet.
As Wyatt rushed into the toilet, Mark frowned at Christopher. “Why did you keep telling me to shut up?” he asked, aggrieved.
“Dude, you were about to spill the beans about me asking Wyatt to marry me. Weren’t you? I haven’t asked the poor sod yet. I figured I’d do that during the flag-raising ceremony on Saturday,” said Chris, his voice barely louder than a whisper.
Mark hissed back, keeping his eyes glued to the bathroom door, “Ah, Ooh — shit! I thought you’d already… Sorry, my bad.”
“Never mind. The day is still young. If you have time, we can continue this in the bedroom. But I wanted to ask…” Chris said mischievously.
“What?” Mark whispered.
Chris glanced at the closed toilet door and pulled Marky Mark down closer over him. Starting out in a soft whisper, Chris asked, “Would you be my best man? When the time comes, I’ll ask you properly.”
“Ask him what, Colt?” Wyatt asked, stepping back into the room.
“Well, if you need to know, mister nosy… I wanted to ask Mister Evens if he has a recommendation for a family doctor,” Chris invented on the spot.
Mark pulled his new best friend off the dinner table and helped him toward the bedroom. Wyatt got pushed onto the mattress first, and Marky Mark dove right on top of him. While Chris lay on his side next to the two of them, Mark looked over and said, “There’s a new guy in Middelland. He’s looking to expand his practice. I’ve tried to figure him out — he was way too eager to get me to drop my pants, and he looked way too interested not to be… I think Hardt might be a closet case.” Mark smirked as he said it.
“Hardt? With DT, you say? Ah… sounds like my type of guy. He can look at mine, too. Need to get my status updated anyway. Thanks for the tip,” Chris replied with a matching smirk.
“Just the tip?” asked Mark Evens sneakily.
“That’s a good place to start. Unless Doc wants all hard eight-and-a-half inches on the first date, of course.”
“What do you mean, Colt? Get your status updated…?” asked Wyatt, genuinely bemused.
“STDs,” answered Chris and Mark in perfect unison. “Can’t be too careful these days,” added the paramedic Mark Evens.
What followed became a joyous Thursday evening to remember. Between the ongoing proceedings, they even discussed the first-aid plans for the market fair. By the time Mark was finally ready to head back to Hallward, he and Wyatt had completely picked up where they had left off nine years ago, and Chris knew the firefighter would become a delicious staple in his Islander diet. Like Wyatt, Mark fit the buff, older-brother type that Chris craved.
And when the paramedic was about to step out into the cool Thursday evening dusk air, Christopher called out, “Marky Mark? Don’t be a stranger, buddy. This was fun — we should definitely do this again sometime.”
“Yeah, Mark. Let’s screw around a little. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do. Thanks for the hot fuck. See you on Saturday — it’s gonna be a blast, too.”
“Don’t worry, Wytze… umm… Wyatt! I would not want to miss the big event! You just take care of that handsome one. And I want to try that horsecock of yours, too. See ya Saturday, fellas. This was just what I needed.”
• Continued in part 30 •
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© StrykerJ - July 2026
