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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 33
• Will you Marry me? - Part 4. — The kinky afterparty.
Wyatt scooted between the market stalls and draped his warm hands over a shaken Christopher de Boer. Sitting down behind the Islander Youth Fund stall, he hadn’t shown his trepidation. Still, the interaction with Jacob Timmer had freaked Christopher out a little. The older Islander had somehow gotten under his skin.
“It’s okay, love. You handled that perfectly. Take a moment, though,” Teller said quietly, feeling Chris shudder beneath his arms. He took one of Wyatt’s hands and gave it a gentle kiss, while the stallion tilted the twunk’s new leather cowboy hat down to cover his blushing face.
It wasn’t shame Chris felt. It was the stark realization that being gay in such a small community comes with its own unique set of challenges. Still, Chris was glad he hadn’t come out during high school in the Netherlands. That would have been a thousand times worse, he figured, laughing a little through the lingering pain.
He let his mind wander back to his very first encounter with a group of openly gay men — specifically, an unfamiliar young guy his own age who had given Chris a warm kiss right on a crowded train station platform. His first real gay kiss.
Chris pictured the scene clearly in his mind; it felt like a lifetime away. It had happened on Friday, April 30th of this year, right before he even stepped on board the noon ferry to the Island. It all unfolded so quickly in the opening chapter of this freaky, cool working holiday. Not even twelve weeks ago. However, a lot of things had happened during that time.
Thinking back, Chris came to the profound conclusion that he actually had ‘found himself’ — and so much more — over the past few months on the Island.
Back then, he had run into a large group of burly bikers who seemed completely drunk on man-love and leather, openly wearing bondage gear over their regular clothes. Christopher vividly remembered the young guy who had given him a drunken kiss when he left the train.
The leather-clad dude had whispered huskily to Chris, “… Thank you. See you around at school, stud!” The dude had looked oddly familiar that day, but Christopher had no name to go with the face at the time.
Only now, months later, sitting here, did the pieces finally click together. That incredibly confident, butch guy had actually been a student a year or two below him at the technical school. Chris racked his brain, and out popped a name: Floris. Though the submissive demeanor he had glimpsed during that wild encounter didn’t quite match how Chris remembered him in high school.
In school, Chris had secretly admired Floris’s butch dress style from a distance. He knew the guy’s name, but they had never actually spoken in the hallways. The guy couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen back then.
The soft-spoken kid had always dressed like a total badass, and he was treated as such. Though Chris had always suspected the buff bastard to be firmly in touch with his feminine side, he usually rocked a classic black biker jacket with skin-tight jeans, or laced-up leather pants paired with a light blue ripped denim jacket and a Palestinian shawl. He was always stomping through the hallways in scuffed punk boots, though.
Apparently, Floris had unknowingly become the inspiration for Chris’s entire appetite for men — leather men. Burly, tough guys who looked slightly older. Guys just like his own man, who was currently holding him groundingly tight as Chris sat nervously behind the market stall, watching the rest of the crowd saunter down the hill.
By now, Christopher could not help himself. He wanted to gape Wyatt’s tight bussy open. But so far, every attempt he had made this day had been thwarted. Heck, he hadn’t even had a chance to blow his man. Or, for that matter, blow his own load. That would have to change, and soon! But there was more work to be done. Chris sighed as he squeezed Wyatt’s anchoring arms.
Checking the time on his phone, Chris saw it was finally time to pack up and transition to the next event. Soon, the curious Islanders and tourists would be replaced by the volunteers, builders, and close friends who had helped Christopher rebuild twenty-four of the thirty barracks. The remainder of the holiday-lets could wait until next year. Wyatt, Tomas, and Barney all hung around protectively, letting Chris take a minute or two to catch his breath after the intense confrontation with Mister Timmer.
The sudden revving up of backpack blowers brought Chris out of his temporary torpor, though. Apparently, the friends who helped organize the highly successful Islander Market Fair had already begun the cleanup. Looking up, Chris saw the local vendors carrying their leftovers down the sand dune. It was an easy load; most of them were completely sold out.
Taking a sharp, deep breath, Chris started directing his troops to help tear down the market stalls and block access to the eastern end of the lower terrace, where the volunteer party would shortly commence.
As the last of the regular visitors found their way back into town, several people stopped by to congratulate Chris on a job well done. It had been eight intense hours with many major ups and a few sharp downs. But on the whole, everything had gone exactly the way the nineteen-year-old had envisioned.
Sixteen large party tables had been set up around the stage, and Aunt Frida’s knitting circle had already arranged the gifted flower bouquets into centerpieces. Chris didn’t know if it had been done deliberately, but each table’s bouquet had a distinct pride-themed color scheme. It was cheerful, colorful, and delightfully over-the-top.
Uncle George had set up large barbecues, refrigerated salad bars, and drink stations around the perimeter of the guarded festival area. The smells, sounds, and sights were absolutely dreamy; Chris could easily see his own wedding reception looking something like this.
The campground and the road into town below the dune had gotten a thorough once-over before the volunteer barbecue party officially kicked off.
Chris had been adamant that he would not bore his friends with long, tedious speeches. Though there were a few key people to thank, of course, and a few more celebratory songs to sing, so his own dinner would have to wait. But Uncle George had him covered.
By four thirty, Chris called the core group to the main stage. He wanted to go over the volunteer party plan one last time with the team. Even Jan, the soundman, was there too, blearily nodding along. Just like Chris, he had been running on pure adrenaline since five o’clock this morning.
As they stood, sat, or hung on the edge of the improvised stage, Uncle George handed each guy a drink and something marvelous to eat. The savory snacks were a godsend, since they wouldn’t have much time to eat during the event. Those premium, pre-barbecue appetizers, straight from the head chef at the Northsea Hotel, were exactly what they needed to sustain their energy.
And it was a good thing they did, because a few moments later, the market fair volunteers found their assigned seats as the first of the builders and construction helpers walked up the hill in a steady stream after them. Seated at the primary table nearest the stage was Chris’s extended family — including Wessel, Great Uncle Ben, Frida, his father and grandmother, the Koiker brothers, and Uncle Burt — along with a few older Islanders. Every single one of them was absolutely beaming, their faces radiating pure pride as they looked up at the young man who had brought this entire impossible project together.
Meanwhile, Chris had found a stool and set himself front-and-center on stage. His left-handed Marrakesh guitar lay flat on his lap as he played some gentle instrumental tunes for the arrivals.
Jan gave Chris the arranged five-minute warning. Around five o’clock, the proud twunk hung the harmonica brace around his neck and began to sing, his voice carrying clearly over the dunes.
“♫ There’s no combination of words I could say, but I will still say one thing: we’re better together, ♫” he crooned softly, tapping a warm, rhythmic beat onto the wooden body of his modified guitar as the crowd settled down, looking around happily.
As the cover of ‘Better Together’ by Jack Johnson’s melody drifted through the air, Wyatt smoothly hopped behind the keyboard. He caught the rhythm perfectly, transitioning the opening tunes into a soulful rendition of Bill Withers’s ‘Lean on Me.’
Chris smiled warmly as the two of them sang and played together. It was completely unrehearsed, but it beautifully set the light tone for the late afternoon. They and the volunteers had relied on each other to get the hard work done, and now it was time to have some fun. As the last notes died out, the audience let the words sink in for a beat before giving the two lovers a roaring, standing ovation.
Chris got up off the stool and swung the guitar around his back. He grabbed a microphone, a bright, genuine smile on his face.
In a calm and steady voice, he explained to the gathered guests, “… Jelmer, Jessie — the new owners of the Harbor View Campgrounds — and I invited you all here this afternoon for one simple reason: to say thank you. Over the last few months, I’ve learned exactly what the Islander way means. It means community, a helping hand, and standing by each other despite our differences. I finally found a purpose here, a home, and the love of my life.”
Chris glanced back at Wyatt, his chest swelling.
“So, instead of heading back to college in September, I’m staying right here on the Island.”
A wave of cheers rippled through the tables, and Chris chuckled, waving a hand.
“We’ve got a lot of incredible food ready for you, and we’ll be handing out some swag bags later. So please stay at your tables so we can gift you a little something-something to compensate you for your time. I could not have done this work without you. Thank you all so much. The bar is officially open!” Chris joked, gesturing broadly to the kitchen crews dotted around the lower bunker terrace as the music swelled.
Between songs, Chris walked around to thank each volunteer-filled table individually for their hard work. The local youths received a small, well-deserved payment from the Islander Youth Fund. The Koiker business owners, Wim and Theo, however, proudly donated their crew wages back to the fund, having happily worked for free over the last few months. Uncle Ben had a grin from ear to ear as he handed the separate check for the materials to the proud Islander builders.
The older Islanders were recognized and thanked as well. Some were brought up on stage to receive a handmade Islander plaque, a Harbor View metal poster, or another custom gift Chris had personally crafted for them. He learned this trick from the lovely Japanese guests he had hosted during the most intense moment of his life on the Island. It wasn’t much, but everyone knew it came straight from a good, honest Islander heart.
As the sun slowly sank over the Air Force training range in the west, Chris received a magnificent surprise of his own. Maren had finally arrived back, with Daisy and three adorable Labrador pups in tow. The ‘Oohs’ and ‘Aahs’ from the hundred-and-fifty-strong crowd didn’t faze the four-week-old puppies Della, Darcy, Duke, or their mom, Daisy.
They had already been expertly socialized by the vet tech, Maren Teller. Little Duke, however, looked ready to aggressively gum a large steak, fiercely salivating over the smell of barbecued meat as if the tiny, four-week-old pup were already a full-grown dog.
Chris sat right down on the edge of the stage as Maren helped the pups up. Daisy, catching sight of her favorite hooman, had already jumped onto the platform and lay herself down, resting her warm head right on Chris’s lap.
De Boer momentarily forgot all about his surroundings, completely oblivious to the fact that he was still wearing a live headset microphone as he cooed at Momma Daisy and three of the thirteen Labrador pups. Maren handed Chris a bag of soft puppy kibble and playfully smooched her soon-to-be brother-in-law right on the forehead.
With his legs outstretched and his sneakers dangling over the edge of the stage, Chris felt incredibly warm and loved. The sweet, touching scene had the crowds at the very back standing on their tiptoes, eager to see the sudden cuteness unfolding on stage. He started a small song as he stroked Daisy’s head.
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.
You make me happy, when skies are gray.
You never know, dear, how much I love you.
Please don’t take my sunshine away.
Chris looked up at the crowd and calmly addressed the people present. “This is Daisy Teller, and three of her thirteen pups. These are Della and Darcy. And the black lab is my buddy, Duke. They are only four weeks old, but I am totally in love. Well, I would be, seeing as I am going to marry Duke’s big brother, Wyatt Teller. If you’re interested in picking up a few of these gorgeous fur balls, you’d better have plenty of time to spend with these high-maintenance and high-energy puppers. But don’t contact me; talk with Maren or Otto Teller if you’re really interested. These Labradors are Islanders, through and through. Born and raised on the mudflats around East, and the cutest soulmates I’ve ever come across…”
He hand-fed the pups some soft puppy chow and cuddled Duke closely while the guests finished their meal and rummaged through the impressive swag bags. The little dude tried singing his own song and licking Chris’s face at the very same time.
As the main barbecue was almost wrapped up, Chris got up and gently set the black lab, Duke, right between his legs. The golden Labrador, Daisy, sat contentedly on his left side, while the other two girls walked around exploring the stage.
The singer-songwriter and beach club owner, Wessel, typically ended his gigs at ‘The Whaler’ with one particular song. Following his hero’s timeless tradition, Christopher decided to end this incredible evening with a song everyone on the coast knew by heart.
It wasn’t anything modern or too fast, but an a cappella sea song: ‘♪ The Farewell Shanty ♪’. The kind of traditional music that had drifted across these salty sand dunes for generations. At any rate, it fit the mood.
Chris had carefully settled the little pup facing the audience, nestled safely right between his spread legs. As he opened his mouth, his voice carrying cleanly over the rooftops of West, Duke tilted his furry head all the way back to look up at his future dad. And Christopher belted out the first slow line,
“♪ It’s time to go now, ♪”
“♪ Haul away your anchor, ♪”
However, what Chris hadn’t counted on was the crowd’s immediate, massive surrender to the music. Instead of just letting him carry the historic a cappella melody alone, the Islanders chimed right in, their voices answering his call in perfect, booming harmony.
“♪ Haul away your anchor, ♪”
“♪ It’s our sailing time. ♪”
The Islanders chorused together with Christopher, their slow collective voices rising up over the dunes like a sacred hymn, sealing the perfect ending to a perfect evening.
Right at seven, as the event permit had dictated, the sound system was switched off. Bathing the Island’s main town in the peace and quiet it was used to. Chris personally saw each volunteer off down the path into town, shaking hands and taking dozens of selfies along the way. The only people left behind were his direct family, the Northsea Hotel kitchen brigade, and the ‘Gay Team’ crew. Uncle Ben had set a few bottles of Jenever on the tables, along with some clean glasses, to toast the day’s massive success.
Chris, however, raised an anxious warning hand.
“Don’t celebrate too soon, guys. There is still the final inspection to endure next Wednesday. We have most of the Islanders on our side now, but you never know what kind of hurdles they might try to put up next.”
Barnibald McKinzie spoke up in his deep, slightly drunk voice. “Me ain’t worried about that. Your paperwork is watertight, Bruh. For the work you did, these cabins didn’t need their occupancy permits renewed in the first place. So, let them talk. Sticks and stones won’t break our bones!”
Chris walked with his family back to Ben and Frida’s farmstead home for a grounding chat and something cold to drink. However, the barnstead fell dead silent around eight o’clock as the national evening news came on. The anchor’s professional voice boomed from the television speaker, reporting on the brewing legal standoff, the alleged financial troubles at the local church, and community issues on the northern barrier Island. Heck, they even reported on the marriage proposal beneath the new Landmark flag and Noah Burk’s homophobic taunts.
When the evening news was done around 8:30 PM, Chris and Wyatt finally left for home. There was still one more skinny-dipping pool party they were scheduled to attend that Saturday night, and it promised to be an absolute hoot with the ‘Gay Team.’ The intense worries about next week’s final outcome would — no, those absolutely ‘should’ take a back seat for now.
Wyatt and Chris jumped into the massive sunset-yellow Ford F-550. It stood waiting near the Harbor View Office on six military run-flat tires. They waved goodbye to the last of their friends and their families. Little Duke protested heavily as his favorite hoomans left him behind. But he was too young to be away from his mom for too long. And besides that, there were so many asses to sniff and cocks to suck later that evening.
Chris didn’t really know how he had managed it. However, over the last few weeks, Christopher had scrubbed Bathway 78 clean. The old, neglected Miller place. He had moved out the furniture left from the previous occupants, replacing it with his own things and the pieces his father didn’t have room for in his new home on the mainland.
The old house was finally starting to feel like home, or at least a more modern version of what had been left behind. Not that he was completely finished — there was still plenty left to do and redecorate — but it was entirely livable at least until the onset of winter. Chris wasn’t sure the uninsulated single-brick walls could keep out the chill.
He would have to take Wyatt shopping to incorporate his style as well. They could move in together as soon as that was done. Heavy tarps shielded the leaky roof for now. Still, the freshly scrubbed and oddly-shaped heated pool now mirrored the evening sky, calm and waiting for the rowdy sex of tonight’s afterparty.
The petty driveway blockade that Counselor Dick Burk had set up was gone — completely dismantled. He’d assumed the Fire Chief had something to do with that, but the man denied any involvement. In a stroke of poetic defiance, Chris had repurposed those heavy, stackable concrete blocks to proudly define the entrance of his own drive, where his new mailbox now hung alongside fresh no-trespassing signs pinned to the salvaged chain-link fencing.
While Chris parked the massive, sunset-yellow truck next to the double garage, he looked over at the cowboy sitting next to him.
“Damn, that was one heck of a day. It’s time to party, Wyatt. Though I want your ass before the party starts. However, I think I should jump in the shower first. I stink.”
“Ha… Never mind that! We’ll end up in the pool anyway. I’ll wash my big piggy then. Who did you end up inviting?”
“Oh, Noah Burk, and…” Chris laughed loudly at the stunned man sitting beside him.
“Just joking. But ever since yesterday morning, I can’t get that image out of my mind. My lawyer laid out the dirt on Noah ‘I-am-straight’ Burk.”
“What image, Colt?”
“Him offering his ass to Barny McKinzie at the old bunker complex in the dunes behind Hallward. Apparently, he’s totally into unprotected Grindr cumdump and raceplay sex. Haven’t I told you? The filthy little closet case. I wonder if his father has any idea about…” Chris burst out laughing.
“Is your lawyer buddy coming tonight as well? I’ve heard big things about him,” Wyatt half-joked.
“Him, and his half-brother, Officer Tomas. I am glad Jelmer got him to open up a little more to the Island, too. But be careful with those two. They are both rather — well, let’s say they could easily teach us a few bondage and S&M tricks.”
As Chris followed Wyatt into the kitchen, he caught his tall, blond stallion around the waist, pushing his stomach up against the kitchen island to reach around his core. With a nimble flick, the belt buckle snapped loose, and before Wyatt even realized what was happening, his jeans dropped down around his sexy snakeskin boots.
“Wy-rat…” Chris grunted heatedly. His fingers were pushing and pulling at the sweaty cheeks of this man. His voice was warm, breathing hornily into Wyatt’s ear, “… Can I hang my dick in there? I need to dump a load… I mean it; ever since this morning, I’ve wanted it. My balls are boiling. It won’t take long. I am ready to explode. Please!?”
Wyatt wriggled his upper body free and turned around, hopping onto the counter and lifting his legs into the air. Restricted by the heavy denim bunched around his boots, he resolutely pulled Chris close. The muscle twunk had to scoot underneath the pants to be in direct firing range, but his eight-and-a-half-inch bazooka slid beautifully between the sweaty buttocks of his lover. The heavy-metal ball stretcher worn by his man still gleamed brightly under the kitchen island lights.
Chris spat on his glans and drove forward in a steady, heavy tempo.
“Ooh, Fuck, Yeah… Hell, man. Steady!… Damn, Shit, there it is. I had expected to get plugged the moment you asked me to marry you. Oh, Chris… Yeah, Fuck me… Stuff dat ass… Breed me!” Wyatt groaned as Chris found his tempo.
The deep plowing heat felt every bit as wonderful as the very first time he had fucked him at the cross-track a few months ago. As he felt the large metal ring and toasty nuts pressing tight against his stomach, Chris paused all movement and bent forward.
After a prolonged, deep kiss, Christopher de Boer whispered to his man, “Why didn’t you beat me up when I accosted you at the cross-track, when we first met? You were so incredibly angry when I taunted you that day.”
Wyatt thought back for a brief moment, panting heavily. “I had never had sex with an Alpha male like you before. Your black leather biker gear completely intrigued me. And well… that first kiss broke something wide open inside me. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve fucked around plenty before. Pierce and Okko can tell you all about that. But they are both natural bottoms. And you, Chrissy… you were exactly the versatile top I needed. I am so glad you asked me to marry you. I am so fucking ready to settle down. But I don’t think you’re actually going to let me, are you?”
Chris shuddered violently at those words — or, well, maybe it was just the first full, crashing orgasm of the evening making his knees go weak, his dick stiffen, and his balls tighten. He bred the horse breeder like there was no tomorrow.
But time waits for no one. All too soon, the rest of the team would arrive — the specific Islander friends, and a mainlander or two, whom Chris had handpicked himself. They were friends with benefits who were more than ready to put the ‘A’ in gAy-team. They were the kind of people whom Christopher could rely on completely to keep his dirtiest secrets. They, in turn, understood they weren’t the ‘only gay men in the village’ after all; Chris had brought them together on the Island in ways they never could have imagined on their own.
• Continued in part 34 •
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© StrykerJ - August 2026
