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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 31
• Will you Marry me? - Part 2. — The Big Reveal.
After what felt like minutes, or maybe several sunlit hours, Chris and Wyatt finally broke apart. Hand in hand, they sauntered down the dune, gliding weightlessly toward the foot of the accessibility path between the upper and lower terraces. The unexpected, traditional marriage proposal had deeply touched almost everyone present, leaving Noah Burk completely isolated in his outrage.
His tight-knit Sunday school posse had quietly vanished into thin air, leaving Noah fuming and utterly alone on the gritty pavement. It was delicious irony: he was standing entirely exposed on the very same ramp his father had blackmailed Chris into building, threatening to block the bunker’s occupancy permits.
“Disgusting!” Noah Burk screamed for all to hear, “… What an egocentric display of anti-Christian bile! That’s what you get when you hire Gay Mainland Builders! They should have torn down these bunkers if they weren’t fit to rent out! Build something useful on ‘Our’ Island!” Noah yelled like a deranged lunatic for all the gathered press to hear.
Chris flipped his own microphone transmitter back on and announced calmly over the loudspeakers, a small, patronizing smirk on his face, “… Dear guests, visitors, and Islander friends. Thanks for your attention. Enjoy the Islander market fair.”
Chris wasn’t done, though. He wanted and needed to explain what his attorney had found out about the current situation.
When he looked directly at Noah Burk, standing alone, blocking the path ahead, he said scathingly, “… Noah, it was the building inspector — your father, Dick Burk, who has been responsible for blocking any and all new building permits on ‘Our’ Island for years now! That has nothing to do with the Harbor View Campgrounds or me.”
“… For those who don’t know my fiancé or me, I am Christopher de Boer, and this tall Islander man beside me is Wytze Teller. And the shouty man at the foot of the path, standing like Don Quixote flailing at invisible windmills, is Mister Noah Burk.” Some of the gathered Islanders let out some nervous laughter at these words.
The calmness with which he spoke stung worse than any taunt. “I don’t see his problem. My being gay leaves him with more girlfriends to pursue. Nothing wrong with finding love on ‘Our’ Island… You should try it, Noah,” explained Christopher to a bewildered Noah Burk.
“Yes, I am gay too, but that’s okay,” said Wyatt with a grin. Chris squeezed his hand in thanks.
“Honestly, I don’t see the issue. There is only one kind of Love. Hopefully, you find true love someday, too, Noah. It may be with a man or a woman. That’s up to you to decide. I Love this guy and want to marry him on ‘Our’ Island. You should try some love rather than your — alleged — brand of hate. It’s actually quite fun, Noah,” smirked Christopher.
“That’s not ‘Our’ Islander way!” called Noah, with less and less conviction, “… And I already have a girlfriend,” stammered the hateful soul, as his words were picked up by the microphones the boys were wearing. Officer Tompson and his bulky lawyer buddy, McKinzie, quietly approached Burks’ position from the back while he spoke. Just to keep the man in check if the need would arise. It looked that way, at any rate.
“Good for you, Mister Burk!” said Christopher cheerfully. “Does she know you hook up with men on Grindr then? And why do you use my altered logo for your profile?”
“Liar!” screamed Noah.
“Dude, I don’t lie. I have proof and witnesses!”
The large crowd let out collective, shocked murmurs now. Apparently Noah’s infidelity was much worse than Chris being gay and in Love.
Chris slowly looked around the who’s-who of the Islanders and spoke, “… But these taunts, this bile, the hatred have nothing to do with our sexual preferences. You see, a little over three and a half years ago, a man came to the Island — allegedly — seeking power, control, and fortune. He is a property developer, dressed as a priest. He wanted to redevelop the Harbor View Campgrounds but lacked the cash to buy the land. A wolf in sheep’s clothes, so to speak.”
Chris took a short breather to gauge the reaction of the Islanders and continued, “… However, according to the Dutch Protestant Church, they never sent a replacement for West’s retired Pastor. The gambling debts that Mister Burks’ family — allegedly — racked up to pay for his schemes have all but annihilated this frustrated young man’s tuition fees in the process. No wonder he’s lashing out. There is a real fear that the same has been done with the restoration fund of the local church,” Chris spoke very calmly but clearly to a gasping crowd.
“Shut your face, Liar! That’s not true. Pastor Simons was sent here too —” screamed Noah, but stopped and swallowed his words.
Chris calmly but clearly continued, “… After that, the property developer found the right people to influence and the funds to do so; he — factually — tried to buy the Harbor View Campgrounds for his scheme. He failed. The owners, my relatives, would not sell. They instead opted to upgrade these eighty-year-old structures. And I was hired to coordinate the large job. When the work started this April, and they found out I am a homosexual, these ongoing discriminatory attacks were staged.”
Chris sighed and took another deep breath.
“… It’s not a crime to Love, but they made it — allegedly — look like the end of the world, and somehow linked the two. These refurbished bunkers are open to whoever wants to holiday here. That has absolutely nothing to do with me. I was just the hired help. And when I came to the Island, I wasn’t even gay yet. Love turned me gay,” said Christopher to an astonished Islander population. The press hung on his lips, drinking in every word.
“… You have been deceived by my young friend here and many others from the local church, and some in City Hall. He was part of the volunteers who helped me, but Mister Burk seems a bit upset today. You can like it or loathe it. But my work here is almost done.” Chris stopped himself and took a good look around, waiting for the inevitable reply.
“Well, if you’re done, then go back to where you came from, ‘Da Boer!’ We don’t want you and your queer ways on ‘Our’ Island!” yelled Noah, the veins in his neck pulsing blue.
Chris serenely continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “… These men, who instigated all this, have been deluding you. They used their hate as an excuse. They are property developers. — Allegedly — wanting to turn this part of West into one of those cookie-cutter mainland suburbs. It would double the size of the town overnight if he had his way. He would stand to make millions to pay off his debts,” explained Chris confidently, “... Heck, the main player in this unfortunate saga is — allegedly — a convicted scam artist and a failed property developer. — Allegedly — the man has gone bankrupt three times already. And his name isn’t even Simons. Heck, he’s not even an ordained priest!” spoke Chris into the wind. A ripple of shocked gasps issued from the Christian Islander onlookers.
And to hammer his point home, he added, “… If I were a member of the local church, I would check their financial records. Just to see if the church restoration fund has grown since the man — allegedly — appointed himself your Pastor.”
“… Allegedly, this. Allegedly that!… That Faggot has no proof for any of this! — My father and Pastor Simons are honest men, good men, religious icons on ‘Our’ Island. We don’t want lying mainland queers like him here!” Noah screamed in a last-ditch attempt to save what he could. But he knew he had failed miserably.
Noah turned tail and ran into a furious wall of Islanders. When the press tried to make sense of the unexpected revelations, he was chased down the steep dune for more information.
Chris laid eyes on his ebony Dutch-African lawyer and the Island’s only black cop. They had stood feet from Noah Burks’ location on the accessibility path. The dark-skinned McKinzie half-brothers flicked their eyebrows at the two handsomely powerful men. They seemed mighty impressed by the way de Boer had handled the explosive situation, giving the Islanders just enough information to set the ball rolling down the steep dune.
Once the ball was pushed over the edge, nothing could stop it. The proud muscle twunk trusted the physics in the rumor process. Chris knew that — now that the ugly basics were out in the open — the Islanders and the press would take it from here. His work was done, for now. It was up to them to figure out who told the truth.
Unlike the rest of the crowd, Tomas and Barny were feet from Wyatt and Christopher, standing between the retaining walls flanking cabins 1 and 2.
Tomas and Barny were therefore the first to congratulate the newly engaged couple.
However, it didn’t take long for their combined and extended families to rush the two, as well. They were watched in awe by what appeared to be half the Island’s population. And unlike the churchgoers, these people seemed genuinely impressed by the way Chris had handled the traditional proposal in public.
Chris’s father, John-Peter de Boer, crushed Wyatt, and Otto Teller lifted the five-foot-seven muscle boy right off his feet. Chris heard Wessel’s band in the circular party tent strike up a smooth, slow-rock cover of Eric Clapton’s “♫ Wonderful Tonight ♫”. The warm, soulful guitar chords rolled across the lower terrace, perfectly setting the mood for the rest of the day.
The crowd kept watching from a respectful distance as the boys’ families hugged, kissed, and congratulated the men on both the reveal of the new Islander Landmark and their engagement. Predictably, Gran Sofia and her sister, Great Aunt Frida, were in floods of tears. Heck, even Pastor Evens, his wife, and their son Mark were sobbing their eyes out.
And the Catholic priest, Father Dirksoan, gave Chris and Wyatt a prolonged hug and a promise. “I’ll make sure this wedding will be the biggest, gayest event the Island has ever seen, guys. Even if I have to get permission from the Pope himself.”
Christopher grabbed his walkie-talkie from his back pocket and switched to a private channel. “* Bleep *… Chris to security. Make a hole to the east. I could use a stiff… umm… drink, and our families need prime seats near the stage.”
The Islanders and beach-dwellers — as the tourists were affectionately referred to — were efficiently dispersed by the security ‘Gay Team’. And in a loose procession, the relatives followed Chris and Wyatt toward the bustling event space near the main stage.
But as the friends and families surged ahead, Wyatt’s large, nimble hand clamped tightly around Chris’s wrist. He pulled Chris sideways into the shadow of Cabin Number Twelve, halfway down the row of equal-numbered bunkers. Chris didn’t say a word. He just smirked, a wicked heat pooling low in his belly as he handed Wyatt the master key to unlock the door.
As they stepped inside and closed the curtains behind them, the cabin fell back into a dim and quiet state. The half-buried concrete sanctuary felt like a private luxury hotel suite. The massive soundproofing panels muffled even the sounds from outside, where the bass of Wessel’s band started to thrum. However, inside, the only sound the two young men heard was their ragged, heavy breathing. The guys had reached their absolute limit.
“A stiff drink, Colt?” Wyatt growled into the dimly lit space, his deep voice thick with absolute lust as he backed Chris up against the slatted, sound-damping wall. “I think you had something else in mind.”
“Oh, shut up and drop your jeans, cowboy,” Christopher breathed, his heart hammering against his ribs as his hands eagerly ripped at the snap buttons of Wyatt’s western shirt.
Christopher fished his own dick out as his jaw dropped. Wyatt was wearing a heavy metal ball stretcher around his scrotum. Thick and tall, it stretched the low-swinging coconuts into tough purple chestnuts. Chris cupped his palm around the berries and looked at his blushing mate.
“I thought we were going for some country rock later. Damn, Wy-rat, this looks like heavy-metal-laced steampunk, not Rhythm and Blues-infused folk,” Chris laughed.
Wyatt smiled and whispered, “I thought you liked it hard and rough.”
“I’d need to find myself a dentist before I chew on that ten-inch metal-clad licorice root. That thing might bust my teeth out if I go too deep on that cock. Dang, bro. You said you got yourself some new toys you wanted to —” Chris stopped talking instantly when he felt it.
Wyatt had wrapped his massive swimmer’s arms over Chris’s back, pulling the boy to his chest and resting his chin on top of his lover’s head. Not only that, he went quiet, and his breath stuck in his throat as tears started to freely slide down his cheeks. The tall, long-haired, blond rescue swimmer was actually crying.
Christopher was known for an emotional breakdown or two himself. Heck, he had spent a day and night out cold at the Teller stud farm when life had delivered a boatload of sour Irish lemons. But Chris had never seen Wytze Antone Theodor Teller break down like this — not even with a short-lived emotional sniff or sob. Chris just put an ear to the naked chest and wrapped his arms around the man.
His man. His hero. The love of his life.
He cupped both young manhoods in one hand and slowly caressed the heated lengths together. Steadily wanking the erect shafts jointly in one tight gripping pull. He let Wyatt feel his love and gave him space to express his emotions.
“Sor… Sorry,” Wyatt stammered after a few moments.
“Happy tears or… something deeper?”
“Well, I finally realize how those bullies must have affected you. You’re one tough cookie, Colt.”
“I am ‘your’ tough cookie, Wy-rat. Never hide your emotions from me. You don’t have to. And honestly, I thought you might break down way earlier. This public ‘profanity’ was… Well, let’s say I needed this hug, too. And I don’t need it rough and rowdy all the time. I’d settle for a kiss, a cuddle, and a playdate with Daisy or Thunder.”
“Deal, but don’t stop now. I am so close!… Oh fuck… Chris… stop… Oh shit, man… I am cumming! —” Wyatt’s breath hitched as he slowly ejaculated over Chris’s black pleated pants.
A sudden, high-pitched squawk from the soundboard bleeped loudly in both of their earpieces. Wessel’s soundman, Jan, had pinged Wyatt and Chris over the internal comms channel.
Jan’s voice came through huskily, “… You two do know that flipping the kill switch for the stage mic leaves your crew radio wide open, don’t you? You’re broadcasting live on the backstage channel. Fuck, guys. If I weren’t happily married, I would join you. Good thing I am the only one listening. You got me hard, too. I’d let you do me. Does that hurt much?”
Wyatt and Chris looked at each other and burst out laughing at the same time. “Dude, Jan. It only takes a wet finger or a hot tongue,” spoke Wyatt into the headset mic.
“Jan, if you want to try it, buy your woman a strap-on and some lube. It might be just what you need if you’re curious. Though the real thing… Well, plenty of roadies long for some action, too. We’ll be out in a moment. Just need a change of pants. Keep the party pumping, Jan. And who knows what you might find backstage!” laughed Christopher.
The built-up tension was completely drained by the horny exchange, lightening the mood between the frisky fiancés. Wyatt looked down at Chris’s pants and apologized for leaving a mess. Chris simply slid a hooked finger over the worst of the globs and licked his hand clean, kissing Wyatt deeply to share the ruined orgasm.
Or was it just the first bit of wedding cake frosting, taken straight from the piping bag? The icing tasted marvelous, nevertheless.
The two men heard a ringed finger quietly — yet urgently — tapping on the patio glass. As Christopher quickly put his dick away and Wyatt snuck into the toilet, he found Mark Evens at the door. Chris let his friend inside and got a crushing hug from the man. He opened his paramedic bag and fished out an expensive bottle of aged Pappy Van Winkle bourbon.
“Emergency medicine for the groom,” chuckled Mark. “Damn, Christopher, you do know how to set the stage. The guys and I got you two a little something that would fit the ‘stiff drink’ you requested. Congrats, you absolute maniacs. I’ve been hoarding this bottle for the occasion, so drink up before I have to treat you for shock.”
As Wyatt shuffled back into the living room and got hugged by his childhood best friend, Chris cracked the premium wax seal with a grin. He took a large swig of the smooth, fiery amber liquid that burned beautifully all the way down. “Medicinal purposes only, right?” he spluttered as he handed the amber bottle around.
“Who needs glasses? It already comes in a bottle,” cheered Wyatt as he took a sip and then another.
“Calm down, Stallion. You’ve got the whole day ahead of you. Let’s give the folks out there a show,” Chris chastised his man as he took the bottle and handed it to Mark. “Go on, bud, just a small one to wet your whistle.”
Mark grinned and took a small sip. He hooked an arm around Wyatt, and they watched Chris slip out of the cabin to get dressed for his first gig of the day.
Christopher saw that the families had found seats around the upper cabins, shielded from the milling crowd below. He slipped into the office and exchanged his cum-splattered pants for something more provocative.
• Dear Diary: Saturday July 24th – This could have gone worse.
All things considered, the proposal to Wyatt and the later confrontation with Noah could have gone a lot worse. I am engaged to the love of my life. Holy fucking shit! I’m going to marry Wytze Antone Theodor Teller. He’s officially my man.
Sure, once we were in private, the emotions broke. When we were walking down that path to face Noah Burk, my hands were shaking so hard I thought I’d drop. But looking at Wyatt, looking at the crowd cheering for us… I realized Simons and the Burks don’t own this Island anymore. Now we only have to wait and see what the press makes of those ugly revelations. Let them do the heavy lifting. I have a party to attend.
Yes, the Island is ours. My heart is still hammering against my ribs, part lust, part absolute terror for the gig ahead, but I’ve never felt more alive. I hope my siblings have TV in their jail cells. If they watch the news tonight, they will finally know the truth about ‘the runt of the family’. Let them and their mother rot in hell. They aren’t my family. I don’t owe them anything anymore.
Okay, time to put on a show. This will be a hard day. I just hope the evening will be as much fun.
Chris stepped into the leather jeans. Not the kinky full zipper ones he’d bought in Amsterdam at Mister B, but the pair that were left behind at the beginning of this working holiday. A plain pair of black leather 501s. He remembered Maren and her girls wanted to perform a western line-dancing routine, so Chris opted to wear the reconditioned black pissed-in cowboy boots he had recovered from the lost-and-found at the beginning of the working holiday.
The two-inch slanted heels made him feel two feet taller. And those jeans? Well, it needed some heavy breathing exercises to let the swelling they induced subside. The conjured image of the ugly hairy butt from Noah Burk on his hand and knees waiting to get blacked did the trick.
Christopher smirked at the kinky combo. The people who disregarded this gear never came back for it. He had grown to love the leather look on men. And he was just one of them now. With his skimpy leather muscle vest, wristbands, and the matte-black gambler cowboy hat on, Christopher stepped into his new future.
With his rebuilt, left-handed Martin D-18 in hand, the young musician sat and spoke with his relatives and closest friends. Chris clinked glasses and received their heartfelt admiration for the way he had handled the unexpected public proposal.
From their secluded vantage point, they couldn’t see the main stage below. However, the upper terrace offered a welcome layer of privacy as the two families and friends celebrated the hour, the day, and their boy’s new engagement. East and West had finally found a way to bond together.
After the second set of Wessels’ band wrapped up, Chris and Maren’s dance crew sauntered down the dune to join the real chaos. The festival grounds were absolutely electric, a roaring sea of bodies, laughter, and the rich, sugary scent of traditional Islander cakes and the fried and barbequed snacks Uncle George’s crew were selling to a hungry population.
Chris took a moment to consult with Jan at the soundboard before hooking his hybrid acoustic-electric guitar straight into the jack box. What followed was an absolute powerhouse of a one-man show. Accompanied by Wessel’s drummer and Wyatt on keyboard. A group of eight Western line-dancers took over the dance floor, as Chris unleashed a gritty, seamless mix of high-friction folk-rock, country rock, and an aggressive, undefinable fusion rhythm that drove the crowd wild.
The security volunteers had to implement a strict one-way system to guide the swarming onlookers around the maintenance paths and accessibility ramps so they could take it all in. Despite the horrifying revelations, the event had just attracted more and more people. In a small community, words spread faster than wildfire.
Chris drummed, strummed, and tapped his guitar like a seasoned pro, his commanding presence filling every square inch of the eastern lower terrace. His ego held the audience completely captivated throughout the set. Heck, he even took the performance right down onto the crane-mat dance floor, letting his tight leather 501s cut a rug alongside Maren’s line dancers without missing a single chord.
By noon, the crowd had swollen to proportions the Island had seldom seen before. Half the freaking Island and their brothers seemed to have climbed the dune, bolstered by hundreds of eager tourists who pushed the numbers over the top. Scanning the cheering faces from the stage, Chris spotted familiar folks from West, Middelland, Hallward, and East End — and all points in between — all drinking and dancing together.
By the time the afternoon sun hit its peak, Wyatt, Pierce, and Okko’s band had doubled in size. Jessie, JT, and Peter had joined them on stage for the occasion, transforming the set into a massive, rowdy jam session. Surrounded by the roaring crowd and the absolute love of his life, Christopher couldn’t resist strapping his Martin back on and plunging right into the heavy, rhythmic action for a few final, unforgettable songs.
During the private volunteer party and barbecue later that afternoon, they would have to do it all over again. Chris could hardly wait to get the public stuff over with, though. His keyboard-playing fiancé had been eyeing his leather-clad guitar player with an undeniably eager, dominant expression. Wyatt’s look promised that the real headliner of the day would be happening behind locked doors at the friends-only afterparty in the pool at Bathway 78 — and it was going to be hard, rough, and absolutely filthy.
• Continued in part 32 •
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© StrykerJ - August 2026
