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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 32
• Will you Marry me? - Part 3. — The downfall of an Icon.
Christopher lost track of his man’s whereabouts while chatting with Wessel’s soundman. Even Maren and the other line dancers had dropped out of sight. While Jan loaded Wessel’s latest studio CD into the player, Chris asked the sound technician to unhook his headset gear.
“Dude, this was hard work. But I need a change of clothes. I am soaked through,” complained Christopher. “I don’t know how Wessel does —” He instantly stopped talking as he felt a familiar arm slide under the modified guitar slung over his back.
“Chris, I’ve been watching from the back. You’ve got plenty of stage presence. And I can give you no higher praise than that,” said the Island’s veteran troubadour over the recorded music blaring from the loudspeakers. “Jan, drop the volume by half, mate. They don’t need me to wake the folks across town in the old people’s home from their afternoon nap.”
“I could do with a nap myself, Daddy.” Calling the man Daddy always made the two smirk.
As Chris smirked, he squeezed Wessel, the older beach club owner, as if he were clutching his mentor as an anchor to prevent him from slipping away.
“Did you enjoy yourself up there, Chris?” asked Wessel proudly.
“Yeah. I think I did, actually. Why!?”
“That’s how you know you were meant to be on stage, soan.”
Wessel ruffled Chris’s hair and said, “You’ve stepped on quite a few toes today, Chris. The local I.N.N-news will put on an extra broadcast around one o’clock. And I drummed up a few additional volunteers to help your security team. There is a freaking line down Back Road. I never drew a crowd like this, soan!” Wessel sighed, semi-impressed. “Oh… And congratulations on your engagement, Christopher. People have been taking bets about when you’ll pop the question for a few weeks now. They saw this coming a mile away. I was leagues off. But this one was stinking impressive!”
After a short, proud moment, Wessel croaked, “… We’ll keep the party going, Chris; they won’t miss you for an hour. Have something to eat. Take that shower and have a few moments to yourself. And remember, take notes. There might be a song in there somewhere. See you later today, soan.” Wessel gave Chris a fatherly hug and walked him up the hill toward Cabin 26 to get his change of clothes and his shower kit.
Christopher found a note on the dining table. It was written in Wyatt’s handwriting and read:
“Colt! You ARE amazing! It felt like… you’re a fucking pro. My fucking pro! Can’t wait to get you alone. I don’t know if you planned any of this, but please teach the guys and me some of your tricks. The team brought our families to your Great-Aunt’s place for lunch. The barn is already filled with tons of flowers and gifts for us. See you around two. Wyatt.”
Chris smirked to himself. “Well, I didn’t plan any of this. Maybe the marriage proposal and some of the songs. But the rest?… It was fun, though! Nevertheless, the crowd seemed to enjoy the clown on stage,” thought Christopher as he read the last line of the scribbled note in glee:
“PS. Chris, I am taking Maren back home. She wants to pick up a few of the pups and Daisy. We think you’d like to see them, too.”
Chris grabbed one of the spare handheld radios and changed the channel to the team leaders’ frequency.
“Chris to security. Private note… bleep, bleep, bleep.” The extra sounds had been a pre-arranged warning. From his vantage point atop the dune, he had a good view over Back Road. He could see his team members pop in their earpieces to listen to his next command.
“Guys, I know it’s a madhouse out there. Call the police if you need more authority. Set up the block system if needed. Let only small groups up the dune after a group leaves. Do not answer any questions about the issues with the local priest. I’ll handle that myself at a later date. Make sure the volunteers are fed and watered. I am going offline for an hour. I’ll be at the campground offices. Squawk if you’ve received my message. And thanks for your help.”
“Inspector Tompson for Security — bleep. The police are mobilizing. Keep any conversation light and friendly. Deflect. Don’t react.”
Chris listened as, one by one, the team leaders responded with their names, a quick ‘received,’ or a single, sharp bleep on their walkie-talkies. Somehow, it gave Chris chills to know his friends had everything under control and that more backup was already on the way.
Chris grabbed the last of his personal belongings from cabin 26 and dropped his gear into the back of the stifling hot Ford F-550. It had been baking in the July sun all day. He checked in with the guys from the fire department and the crew from the Koiker brothers, glad-handing the teams and thanking them for an amazing display. In turn, the men and women from the air force, beach guards, and Royal Dutch Lifeguards were stinking proud that Chris — the man of the hour — took time out to talk to them.
It gave the muscle twunk the confidence to face the music, so to speak. Christopher hadn’t seen anything himself yet. He wanted and needed to visit the local organizations and vendors in action. A quick lunch and a change of clothes would get him back onto the grounds just in time for the final stretch. After all, the market fair wrapped up at four, and the real fun wouldn’t start until the private volunteer barbecue began at five.
He let himself be swept up by the milling crowd as they made their way west behind the refurbished bunkers atop the dune. The circulation pattern only faltered slightly around the landmark flagpole. Still, the mood was cheerful enough to keep any friction at bay. Chris ducked out of the slow-moving queue and walked across the campgrounds toward Uncle Ben’s and Aunt Frida’s place. The extra tables and chairs he’d ordered for the volunteer barbecue were already in full use for a late lunch, transforming the former barn behind his relatives’ property into a fully improvised restaurant.
“There he is!” called Aunt Petra gleefully.
“Take a load off, Chris!” screamed Jan-Timo from across the barn.
“What? Here, now? Eww, you naughty boy!” joked Chris, winking back. “Frida, can I use your shower? I desperately need a change of clothes and a quick power nap. This has been hard work!”
“That’s fine, dear, but do hurry back down. Have you eaten yet? I can keep the soup cold and your cake warm for you, dear,” she joked.
Chris had to endure a gauntlet of family and close friends congratulating, patting, stroking, and grinning at him as he slowly made his way into the farmhouse behind the campground offices. The sudden quiet of Jelmer’s old bedroom came as a welcome shock. He laid his modified Martin D-18 on the desk, sat down, and eagerly pulled out his notebook.
• Dear Diary: This day will go down in Islander history – July 24th, 12:48 PM.
Phew, that was quite an intensive morning. My nuts are sticking to these leather pants. And I haven’t even jizzed my trousers (yet). I have to remember this day — if only to prevent me from getting married to Wyatt in temperatures like these. It’s boiling out there. Well, it’ll beat a soaking rainy day. Still, a fall wedding on the Island sounds nice, too.
I FUCKING DID IT, DIARY. I asked Wyatt to marry me. And he said yes. I knew he would, but still. It was a little bit of a shock. He got me a gift, too. Did he know I was going to ask him? Someone must have blabbed. I am not sorry, though. He gave me a fucking cool small black leather cowboy hat. And it’s Islander-made. Have I told you recently I fucking love this working holiday?
Seeing my biological mom, Sarah, standing between Wim Koiker and John-Peter did my heart good. Not even Noah’s feeble taunts could bring me down. Hearing that the local Islander News Network will do an extra bulletin at 1:30 PM is much more of a worry. Well, I gave them the dirt. It’s up to the Westers to deal with the fallout. Don’t shoot the messenger. With a bit of luck, it might turn out for the best.
After a rejuvenating cold shower and a far-too-short nap, Christopher got dressed. Although the dream he’d had was quite a vivid bit of adult entertainment. It featured Wyatt and him between two hunky black stallions.
He pulled on a tight pair of leather jocks after he snapped a cockstrap around his dick and hairless balls. Just to give the package a little more definition for the afternoon show. Chris wrestled his bulge into his light blue, stonewashed denims. These jeans had fit him perfectly when he arrived on the Island back in April, but now they snugly gripped his massive, muscle-bound legs.
When he fished out the special Islander polo he’d worn the night he performed with Wessel, his hero, a proud grin spread across his face. The Islander shirt featured the five vibrant colors of the local flag stitched neatly under the collar. And pinned to the breast pocket, he found the cherished honorary Islander Pin he’d thought had been lost forever. Living out of suitcases and weekend bags wasn’t his thing; he needed his life to be a lot better organized than that.
Christopher blinged up with the silver Cuban necklace he got from Uncle George, the leather wrist guards he’d worn all day, and some fresh white sneakers.
As he combed his hair in the mirror by the door, a soft tap came from the hallway. He pulled it open to find Officer Tomas Tompson and his ‘little’ half-brother, Barnibald McKinzie.
Master Big-Mc wore an ochre muscle shirt and breezy, cream-colored linen pants. The soft fabric, however, contrasted nicely with a tough leather bicep strap tightly bound around his left upper arm, his pinned-up braids, and his sophisticated office glasses.
Tomas, on the other hand, wore his crisp police uniform. The stark contrast with his lawyer buddy made Chris chuckle.
“Are you two playing cops and robbers, guys? Damn, it’s good to see you two. How’s the mood out there?” Chris asked.
“Tommy thinks you’re in danger, Chris. We are going to take it on ourselves to stick close to you this afternoon,” Barney said, half-smirking.
Taken aback, Chris looked between the rigid police uniform and his lawyer’s stylish getup.
“Tomas?” Chris asked, puzzled and slightly scared.
“Well, it’s a little bit of an exaggeration, but yeah. A little extra security can’t hurt,” explained Tomas, “… Though the mood out there is friendly enough, so don’t worry. We’ve got your back.”
“In that case, Tom, lose the police jacket and the cap. Not sure if I can handle the two of you at once. Well, no, I am sure I can’t,” said Christopher wickedly as he reached out, cupping both men’s heavy crotches with either hand.
“Not quite what I meant. But if anyone could, you can, Chrissy,” said Tomas as he ripped off his police cap and forcefully drove his tongue deep into Christopher’s mouth.
“Oi, bro!? Give a brother a chance,” objected Big-Mc after a while.
“Don’t worry, Barney. I have backup if you need more white meat in this Oreo. Fuck, I do love to get manhandled at some point by the two of you. I’ve always wanted to learn more about bondage and domination. Preferably in some leather — maybe even some soft SM, if you’re up for that in a private setting with some Islander friends of mine.”
“Dude, you’re engaged!” protested Barnibald.
“So? He’d be up for that, too, I think. He’s used to handling horsecocks. Now shut up and eat my face! That’s an order, bitch! Or do I need to bite your balls first?”
“Better give this piggy what he needs, Barns. He gives as good as he gets,” laughed Tomas.
“Well, move out of the way then, Tom. Let me at him.”
The frantic moment was over almost before it had begun. Chris got a delicious, deep French kiss out of it and was just getting into his stride when Wyatt’s voice called out from the hallway.
“Dear, are you awake yet? Need any help?”
Chris yanked the door open, treating Wyatt to the immediate sight of his man making out with two hunky, tall ebony thoroughbreds. Talk about an Oreo with cream squirting from every angle.
“Wyatt, come on in, mate. I’ve dreamed about this. I don’t think you’ve had the pleasure. This is Tomas and his younger brother Barnibald. Guys, this is my better half. Wytze Antone Theodor Teller — Breeder.”
Chris saw Wyatt’s jaw drop. “Well… umm… sorry. I can come back if —”
“Shut up, Stallion! Get in here. You’re almost as long as these two. So don’t be shy, take a number, and kiss me,” Chris moaned sharply as he crushed his hips hard against his bewildered man. Big-Mc smoothly moved around Wyatt’s back, while Officer Tomas pressed his hard frame flush against Chris’s ass.
“Geezus,” moaned Wyatt as he reached around his back. “How long is that thing?”
“Fourteen — an’ me ain’t talkin’ years of age, bud. And your man took it all. Sorry ’bout dat, bro,” Barney rumbled playfully in a thick, rugged drawl.
“I am not sorry. I know my Colt likes ’em big — how do you think he ended up with me? Shit, somehow this feels nice, guys.”
“Yeah, well…” Officer Tomas growled huskily, “…stop flappin’ your mouth so much and drive that tongue into your man before I stuff twelve inches into yours, Wyatt.”
But just as they were on the verge of starting something way more intense than anything they had experienced all day, a loud shout rang out from downstairs.
“Guys, get your asses down here! The news is about to start!” It was Uncle Ben calling the men down for what promised to be an eye-opening exposé. “Rain check, tonight?” Chris panted, looking up at his three stallions. “Definitely! We can continue this dressed in some leather,” they answered in unison.
As Chris walked through the bustling farmstead and into the converted barn, the crowd had swollen into a sea of eager, smiling faces. Everyone was glued to a couple of wide-screen TVs that Jessie had brilliantly organized.
Chris pulled out his handheld radio, calling the soundman with a grin: “Jan? Got your ears on, mate? The news is about to start. Hang a headset over the TV feed in cabin twenty-four next to the stage. Let the whole Island listen to what the press has dug up so far.”
A few minutes after half past one, the familiar, upbeat jingle of the Islander News Network blasted over the loudspeakers, its cheerful chimes echoing across the sun-warmed, red-clay roofs of West.
The atmosphere inside the barn was wonderfully festive. Aunt Frida immediately served Chris a plate of crisp garlic toast and a steaming bowl of her famous homemade soup. This thick, hearty veggie brew smelled absolutely divine.
His grin could not have been wider as the newsreader highlighted the day’s triumphs: the beautifully refurbished bunkers, the roaring success of the local market fair, and the proud raising of the new Landmark flag on top of the Harbor View Campgrounds. The broadcast even showed a gorgeous aerial shot of the forty-two-foot aluminum pole, sparkling like a jewel and perfectly visible from the ferry as the ship rolled into the docks. The crowd cheered, raising their glasses in a warm, communal toast.
Then, the broadcast cut to the moment Chris proposed to Wyatt. Christopher hadn’t viewed it from an outsider’s perspective yet, and watching it on screen made his heart swell. He enjoyed seeing the gift exchange the most. The actual proposal he had envisioned for days already. A scene that he could dream of from every angle, in full Technicolor movie magic, with his eyes closed.
No, what he was more intensely interested in — and secretly worried about — was how Islander News Network handled the bit where he’d argued with Noah Burk. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his lawyer buddy, Barney, already eagerly taking notes.
The press had miraculously managed to corner Noah Burk right as he ran up his daddy’s driveway, catching the spoiled brat completely off guard. They broadcast some very revealing, petulant quotes from him that had the entire barn laughing out loud. Next, the screen showed the reporters trying to get a reaction from Pastor Simons, only to get a heavy wooden door slammed right in their faces.
The local newsreader didn’t hold back, though. He triumphantly identified the man to the entire Island as Simon Abraham Daniel Pastoor — a convicted criminal, scam artist, and failed property developer. But the absolute best part was the live phone interview with the Dutch Protestant Church. The official representative confirmed exactly what Chris had suspected all along: the man wasn’t an ordained Pastor after all, and worst of all, they hadn’t sent him to the Island.
The final nail in S.A.D. Pastoor’s coffin completely obliterated the last of Chris’s lingering fears. The coffers of West’s local church had been ruthlessly pilfered and plundered, according to one of the church elders. Chris recognized the man immediately as the branch manager of one of the main Islander banks. His technical breakdown of the stolen funds hit the community like a belated bombshell.
However, the angry shouts and rising screams from the crowd outside quickly died down as the manager reassured the gathered press that all affected accounts had already been flagged. The damning financial evidence had already been handed to the police and the Dutch Protestant Church.
Christopher looked up at his lawyer and gave the ebony stud a thunderous high-five that practically shook the dusty barn walls. That crisp, ringing slap instantly snapped the extended families out of their collective stupor and bewilderment.
During this intense working holiday, their Christopher had endured far more than he ever should have. But as the cheers began to erupt around them, one thing became beautifully clear: the Islanders didn’t give a fuck where Chris found his kicks, or who he chose to share them with. They cared much more about the deep web of lies they had once blindly believed, simply because they had been handed down from high up on the pulpit.
“What’s next, Chris?” asked Wyatt as he affectionately laid his nimble hand on the back of Christopher’s neck.
“Next?… I want another sip of that Bourbon — and hold the ice! We’ve got a massive after-party to prepare and gift bags to hand out to the volunteers. Between now and five o’clock, a lot can happen, though.”
Mark Evens was more than happy to oblige. He handed Chris the bottle, and before Uncle Ben had gotten up to get some shot glasses, Christopher had already taken three long swigs.
After lunch and the news reports, Chris walked with a proud spring in his step back toward the bunkers. Well, to be fair, it was more of a sprained limp. Because he wasn’t quite sure how these local revelations would ultimately hurt or help his cause. It was his name associated with the whole scandal, after all.
However, he met none but happy faces. He knew those who hadn’t believed their ears would have found their way down the dune already. So he joined the crowd and talked to the vendors and the local organizations. He was glad he had half a dozen people behind him. His and Wyatt’s hands were stuffed with gifts and donations for the Islander Youth Fund.
Sure, Chris — and even his lawyer — got bombarded with questions about the recent revelations. But to his own surprise, Chris was able to give each person an honest answer. The few sneers and leading questions he easily brushed off with, “… I hear your concerns, and I have them too. But let the elders figure it out. I am sure that a new person might soon be taking over.” Or, “… Yes, I am a homosexual, I am in Love, and we got engaged today. I can only hope you are, or once were, as much in Love as I am now.”
Around half past three, Chris sat comfortably behind the Islander Youth Fund booth, eagerly explaining his vision to the intrigued locals and the beach-dwelling tourists. He wanted to give the Island’s youngsters more tangible opportunities to stay on the Island. Christopher had already created a couple of part-time jobs, and he finally had the proper funding to teach the rest of them some handy, lifelong skills.
It was not until nearer the end of the market fair that an older man, dressed in his stiff Sunday best, stomped right up to Christopher. His sour demeanor was as black as the traditional clothes he wore that Saturday afternoon.
Without preamble, he addressed Chris directly.
“What the hell do you think you are doing? No one asked you to…”
He looked scathingly at the colorful folders and posters Jelmer and Jessie had prepared, and at the heavily stuffed donation box bolted securely to the table.
The older man snorted, continuing, “… no one asked you to ‘help’ our kids. We take care of our own! We don’t need more builders on this Island either.”
“I’d agree, sir…” Chris replied smoothly. “Pastor Simons, however, had other ideas. He wanted to build massive apartment blocks and row houses on the campgrounds, doubling West’s size overnight. But if our youth don’t have a future here, those ugly buildings would just sit empty. I hope the technical classes and job opportunities give the next generation a real shot. That’s all I am doing — giving people a chance. However, that takes money and time. Not everyone wants to work in the tourism industry, sir.”
Feeling the argument slipping away from him, the bitter older man started clutching at straws.
“You’re one of those… those… dirty…” He trembled with rage. “You’ve destroyed a man’s life! That’s close to murder!”
“That is a faulty opinion that has already been overtaken by fact, sir,” Chris said coolly. “And I think the word you were looking for was homosexual, or gay. Yes, I am gay, but that’s okay. It shouldn’t bother you.”
The devout man raised a shaking, furious finger. “You’ll never be married in our church! You’re no Christian! You’re an abomination and a disappointment to your mother!” the old man shouted, spinning around to walk away in a huff.
‘Well…’ thought Chris smirkingly, ‘… at least the bit about my so-called mother is right. Charlotte Marie Mulder absolutely hates me! She never was my real mother, after all. That woman can play mother-superior in jail, for all I care.’
However, before Christopher could do anything but nod in amused agreement to that final statement, Pastor Evens intervened, stepping right into the man’s path. He held up a placatory finger as he gently shook his head, instantly cutting off any further outbursts.
“Now, now, Jacob Timmer. Chris is a better Christian than most; his heart is in the right place,” Pastor Evens scolded softly, “… And the marriage will be held in Hallward — the home church of his partner-to-be.”
Father Dirksoan added proudly, “… If they wish it to be so, it will be a beautiful ecumenical wedding, in keeping with all sacred Islander traditions. There is nothing you can do about it, Jacob. There is only one kind of Love, after all.”
Standing just a step behind Jacob Timmer, Wyatt’s ears immediately began to turn bright red. The corner of his lip twitched up as his eyes widened, realizing that Christopher had already been engaging in some serious, high-level skulduggery.
They hadn’t even chosen a venue yet, let alone spoken to a priest together, but Wyatt just nodded along silently. He deeply liked what he heard, and it seemed the entire hierarchy of the Island’s clergymen had already fallen perfectly into step with the plan. Teller just had to agree and sign on the dotted line.
Officer Tomas Tompson smiled softly at the bewildered man and placed a firm, guiding hand on his shoulder.
“Do you need some help off the dune, Mr. Timmer?” the police officer asked, calmly steering the older gentleman away. “I can assure you that everything regarding the church funds will be thoroughly investigated soon. But remember, discrimination is simply not the way of the Islanders.”
As an utterly defeated Jacob Timmer was escorted down the resin-bonded crushed-seashell paths, the tense silence around the booth suddenly dissolved. From the East side of the row of bunkers, a heavy bassline suddenly thumped to life, and the mouth-watering, smoky aroma of roasting meat began to drift across the dunes on the warm afternoon breeze.
Chris looked at Wyatt and grinned, the lingering sting of the confrontation melting away instantly. The hard work was officially over. The sound system was tested, the grills were searing hot, and the massive volunteer thank-you party was finally ready to explode into action.
• Continued in part 33 •
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© StrykerJ - August 2026
