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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 35
• The Gay-Team to a late-night rescue.
Christopher’s first impromptu mission with the local Fire Department wasn’t supposed to feel this chaotic. Between a phone battery clinging to its last percentage point after a full day of snapping photos and texting, and a vandalized CB antenna dangling uselessly from its mount, the muscle twunk’s nerves were buzzing. Too much time had already slipped away gathering gear for a search operation that might turn out to be a false alarm anyway. He was here as a translator, not a hero firefighter charging in to save the day.
Goldilocks was the last truck to crest the sea dike along the path toward the weed barn, but the scene was still wide open. Emma Parker, one of the female officers Chris had chatted up earlier during this wildly chaotic day, sprinted straight over to his car.
“Careful, Chris. The on-duty Head Constable, van der Meer, has ‘taken charge’ of the situation. He’s in a towering rage after Fire Chief Wilson called in his men. He almost put Paramedic Evens in cuffs just for showing up as ordered,” gasped the young female officer.
“Okay. I’ll park out of the way and slide in quietly. I can handle translation,” Christopher replied smoothly. “Tell those guys to hold position for instructions at the Teller stud farm. They’re ready to roll if this turns into a full search party.” He pointed to his friends standing on the dike.
“Ah, that explains why the sexy Islander boys are out in force tonight. Thanks, Chris. Be careful in there, though — we couldn’t get hold of Inspector Tompson,” she warned with a tense breath.
“I know. Tomas is off on some well-earned R&R, getting erotically reacquainted with his estranged half-brother — who happens to be my gay attorney. They’ve got plenty of catching up to do.” Chris chuckled, tapping his nose with a knowing grin while Emma offered an amused smirk.
Pandemonium reigned inside the youth hostel. Stepping quietly into the mess hall, Chris found sixty screaming French teenagers packed wall-to-wall. They weren’t the only ones losing their minds; the duty Constable was bellowing commands in a furious mix of Dutch, German, and English at the crowd. Unsurprisingly, not a single French kid understood a word of his red-faced roaring. Flipping open his notebook, Chris immediately began piecing together scattered details from the surrounding babble.
Over in a far corner, a crowd of rowdy sixteen-year-olds had backed the oldest guy in the group against the wall. Shouting at the top of their lungs, they blamed him — a guy named Yves — for bringing the sickly fifteen-year-old on the trip in the first place.
The missing kid hadn’t been seen for hours, though the mob hardly seemed broken up about it. They clearly despised his autistic guts. Still, a few panicked girls had dialed the Police just before midnight to report him missing. The frantic details spilling out painted a grim, ugly picture, and Christopher jotted down every useful scrap of intel he could glean from the noise.
Earlier that day, the older guy had been dumped in charge of sixty teenagers after their four adult camp chaperones flew the coop. Apparently, those leaders decided they needed a drink — or three — on the mainland, conveniently ‘forgetting’ their phones and stranding Yves Perrot with the entire group, despite him being a fellow camper. With the hour well past midnight, the irresponsible adults had clearly missed the final ferry back to the Island.
The missing boy, JP Perrot, was a fragile, autistic kid. Word among the campers suggested he had wandered off into the night to hunt for the horses he’d spotted trotting by earlier that afternoon.
Local horse farmers regularly herded their stock in large droves out onto the mudflats to graze in the nature reserve. Chris rapidly logged the boy’s physical profile and clothing description. Just as he jotted down the last detail, the older twink threw up his hands in total defeat and slunk out of the mess hall.
Turning to follow Yves Perrot, Chris was suddenly cut off as Alex van der Meer finally locked eyes on him.
Every summer, tourist swarms exploded the Islander population from six thousand to several times that many. This forced the local force to bring in extra mainland personnel. Unfortunately, this particular mainland bureaucrat wore his badge like a crown, treating the local officers as personal underlings while acting like a dictator in a high-visibility vest.
“Get out of my crime scene, faggot!” bellowed Head Constable van der Meer at Chris. “You Islanders don’t belong here! We got this under control!”
Spit flew from the officer’s mouth as he barked directly into Chris’s face. Word about the very public marriage proposal earlier that afternoon had clearly reached the bigoted cop, and he was practically vibrating with hostility.
“No crime appears to have been committed, sir,” Chris replied, lacing his voice with absolute disdain. Shoving the urgent pager alert from Chief Wilson directly beneath the Constable’s nose, he wrenched his arm free and strode out of the chaotic room.
Chris tracked down the twenty-one-year-old in the final private bedroom of the camp leader’s quarters. He shared a room with the missing kid. Yves Perrot sat perched on the edge of the lower bunk with his face buried in his hands. Though older than Chris by a couple of years, the guy looked completely shattered, behaving like an overwhelmed twink backed into a corner.
“Yves Perrot? Puis-je entrer?” Chris quietly asked from the hallway, introducing himself in fluent French. The guy was a cute, rural French dude — a tall, skinny redhead who looked completely overwhelmed and in dire need of a warm hug and some encouragement.
The muscular, younger Islander sat next to him on the thin mattress, wrapping a strong arm over Yves’s trembling shoulders and pulling him closer against his side.
“Ça va? JP est ton frère?” The quiet question made Yves sit up a little straighter.
“You speak French?” he asked Christopher, his voice shaking. “We’ve seen you on TV today. You asked a guy to marry you, didn’t you?” Yves asked in broken English.
“Yes, yes, and yes. But please, speak French, Yves.”
“Ah. D’accord. Non, Jean-Pierre is my cousin, three times removed. And I can’t blame those guys out there — Jean-Pierre is… a handful. Always going off about those horses he likes,” Yves explained, eagerly switching back to his native tongue.
The Frenchman quickly added that they both lived in the wrong parts of France. Yves lived with his parents in a rural farming community, while JP hailed from the big city. Perrot wished — for both of their sakes — that their hometowns had been reversed.
Christopher offered a wry smirk, relating instantly to the sentiment. His deep love for the Island and the lingering envy he sometimes felt toward his Islander cousins mirrored that exact frustration.
“Ha, even autistic guys have a right to a holiday,” Chris said quietly. “And yes, I’m gay and deeply in love. My fiancé actually works at the stud farm on the other side of the sea dike.”
Then Yves moved with startling speed. Lunging forward, he locked his lips onto Chris’s in a deep, desperate French kiss. His tongue slid inside as a rogue hand darted straight for the heavy bulge straining against the green cargo pants of Chris’s brushfire uniform. Hungrily cupping his thick cock and balls, the Frenchman stroked the heavy length through the tough fabric with a practiced vigor that felt all too familiar. The guy had clearly done this a few times before.
Breaking apart at last, Yves looked as red as a beet. Christopher simply offered a gentle smile, cupping the guy’s blushing, hot cheek in his palm.
“Merci, Yves. That was nice. Unexpected, but nice. I must be mistaken if this was your first time kissing a guy. Am I right?”
“Merde, non. But ask Jean-Pierre. He’s the gay one in the family. The kid has been trying to suck me off all holiday. Is that wrong? Should I let him? My friend at home and I just kiss and stroke each other. What’s it like getting fucked? Does that hurt much?”
Chris paused to digest the barrage of questions. He was here to gather intel on a missing kid, not to run sex education for a curious twink. Still, keeping his tone calm, he answered, “… if it hurts too much, he’s doing it wrong. And as for JP… he just needs to wait until he’s old enough. You guys can talk, or watch a kinky late-night movie together. Just don’t break the law.”
The brief explanation seemed to settle the young Frenchman. Still, a surge of quiet surprise hit Chris as he realized how readily the older guy looked up to him. Chris was several years younger, yet he was clearly running circles around Yves when it came to basic maturity.
“Thanks, Yves. What else do I need to know about him? Did you give the Police his picture? Did you give them the names of your missing camp leaders?”
“Non. No one asked me. The police officer just blamed us for calling the station. But what do we do now?”
Handing Yves his mobile number, Chris plugged his dying phone into the nearest wall socket. The screen flickered back to life just in time. Yves immediately transferred several recent photos of his young cousin along with pictures of the four absent camp chaperones. Packing the full intelligence breakdown into an urgent text, Chris dispatched a concise, complete report directly to the team who actually mattered — Okko Hek, Wyatt Teller, Officer Tompson, Chief Wilson, Paramedic Mark Evens, and Doc Falentine ‘Fish’ Hardt.
01:18 AM. Report:
Jean-Pierre Perrot is missing from the weed barn. He’s autistic and urgently needs his medication — see attached labels. The boy has been missing since 21:00 tonight. Last seen wearing a red F1 racing shirt and shorts, topped with a red 6-7 bucket hat with yellow lettering. Physical profile: 5 feet 2 inches, skinny build, 15 years old, curly red hair — photos attached. Do NOT approach or shout at him. He struggles with communication and is easily overwhelmed — terrified of flashing lights, loud noises, and unfamiliar faces.
He’s heavily fixated on horses and likely wandered off looking for them. Check every horse farm between here and beyond Hallward. I’m taking my drone into the nature reserve to cover ground fast. If I find him, I’ll send the drone up high with a flashing beacon to mark his exact location.
Ass-Head Constable van der Meer just kept screaming at the campers, blaming them for disturbing the peace instead of organizing a search party. Completely useless. So I took it upon myself to file this ‘civilian report’ to get actual results.
Note: Those blooming French camp counselors are probably stuck on the mainland after missing the last ferry back. Dispatch a French speaker to watch over these campers tonight. My phone’s battery is on its last breath, and my CB radio is busted, so I’ll be going dark after this.
Spread the word.^CRP-19 — out.
Yves handed Chris a small plastic bag containing four different pills and an eyedropper bottle with written instructions just as his phone began bleeping with incoming alerts.
“Got it,” replied Tomas Tompson crisply.
“Careful. Don’t go off-road. Mind the quicksand traps out there, Chris,” Okko chimed in. The man knew the nature reserve inside and out, running covered-wagon tours through the dunes several times a week.
“Standing by. Heading to the youth hostel now — I’ll contact Nurse Johanna Teller, too,” reported Doc Hardt.
Fire Chief Willson messaged, “I’ll contact the Air Force and the lighthouse to keep an eye out for your signal, Christopher. Don’t take risks. It’s late and pitch black out there.”
A sharp, acrid reek of a battery self-destructing suddenly filled the small bedroom. With a fierce hiss, and a whistling ‘pffweet,’ Chris’s phone screen went dark for good.
“What can I do?” asked paramedic Mark Evens from the doorway. Yves mirrored the question with a desperate look, eager to join the search for his missing cousin.
“Stay here, Yves. Look after your friends. Get them into bed,” Chris instructed in firm French.
Turning to Mark, he switched to Dutch. “Once everything settles down, this guy needs a quick sex-ed practical. Teach the gay-curious boy how to handle a dick responsibly. Sit tight with him until we locate his cousin.”
“Excuse me?” Mark choked out a laugh.
“Just help him to calm down. His nerves are shot — he nearly jumped my bones earlier,” Chris cracked with a smirk.
“Wait, Chris! Take my phone!” Yves shouted as Chris hurried toward the door.
“No need, Yves. There’s zero cell coverage where he’s heading,” Mark explained in rough French, draping a reassuring arm across the nervous teenager’s shoulders as they followed Chris toward the mess hall. Aside from the sixty rowdy teenagers, the room stood deserted — the Police had completely vanished, leaving only a pair of junior officers posted near the front entrance.
Stepping into the night air, Chris was flagged down by Junior Officer Emma Parker with a fresh update. Head Constable van der Meer had pulled his squad back to base, arrogantly claiming the missing boy would wander back on his own come sunrise. When his officers pushed back, he had placed them all on formal report. But the ‘Gay-Team’ was already moving into action. His fiancé and Okko were spreading the word across the Island, and Chris was confident Inspector Tompson would deal with the rogue Constable soon enough.
Armed with nothing more than a compact Fire Department VHF radio and a few hours of basic comms training under his belt, Chris drove into the ink-black night. Hunting for a solitary kid out in these vast expanses felt like searching for a used condom in a haystack.
Tracking fresh hoofprints along the sandy marsh trail, he lost the track the moment he crossed the first of three deep drainage channels cutting through the nature reserve. Every few hundred yards, he launched his large inspection drone into the starless sky to sweep the surrounding terrain with thermal imaging, only to come up empty time after time.
That was until the drone camera picked up a flash of bright fabric — a red bucket hat snagged in a thorn bush along a disused trail leading toward the mudflats. The abandoned track was infamous for treacherous pockets of quicksand, having once served an old government birdwatching cabin near the southern bird sanctuary boundary. Banked hard down the overgrown path, the drone recaptured the deep hoofprints, though still without any matching shoe tracks alongside them. Glowing eyes from the local wildlife flickered on the thermal monitor, but the boy remained missing.
Just as frustration threatened to take over, rapid movement flickered across the screen near the far end of the trail, right where it crossed the second muddy drainage channel — dangerously close to the exposed tidal flats of the barrier sea.
Recognizing that the heat signature was far too large for a bird or a deer, Chris lowered the drone, flicked over to infrared, and executed a tight orbit. The live feed sent a jolt of cold dread straight to his gut: a teenage boy was buried up to his chest in the thickest part of the silt, coated from head to toe in heavy black mud.
Dropping the heavy Ford F-550 into low crawler gear, Chris carefully tracked the horse prints up the forgotten trail, praying the animals’ instincts had steered them around the worst of the quicksand pockets. He pushed the six-by-six rig as aggressively as he dared, battling back grim memories of local Islander folklore — tales of buried vehicles and helpless travelers swallowed whole by the mudflats. Once dismissed as spooky campfire stories for tourists, those legends now felt deadly real in the pitch-black silence.
Steering clear of two treacherous soft spots by clinging religiously to the horses’ detour, Chris ground to a sudden halt. A massive, churning quicksand pit stretched directly across the track, cutting off the final stretch to the boy. There was no way around it, and no time to climb down with a sounding pole to test for solid ground beneath the chassis.
Slamming the truck into park, Chris hit the recall switch for his drone. Pulling the boy clear single-handedly was physically impossible; breaking the terrifying vacuum seal of wet, packed silt required heavy rigging and extra hands. His only play was to launch a signal so bright that the lighthouse watch couldn’t miss it.
Fastening the LED illumination balloon beneath the drone chassis, he sent the craft soaring into the sky directly behind the trapped boy. Dialing the high-lumen ring light to maximum output, he programmed a continuous emergency sequence: the Morse code pattern for CRP-19, followed by the relentless three short, three long, three short bursts of a universal SOS.
— • — • • — • • — — • • — — — — — — — — •
• • • — — — • • •
The sudden, strobing glare overhead triggered an immediate wave of terror in the exhausted French teenager, but Chris had no alternative. That dazzling white flash in the sky was the only beacon that would lead emergency crews through the pitch-black night to their exact coordinates. Clenching his teeth, Chris muttered a fierce string of curses under his breath.
This wild midnight operation was the absolute last thing he’d planned on tackling today. Yesterday had kicked off at 5:00 AM. The market fair and the public marriage proposal had gone smoothly enough. However, after more than twenty-two hours on his feet, Chris was about to do something most people would consider exceptionally stupid.
Yanking open his yellow, watertight duffel, he hastily loaded goggles, the VHF handheld, the kid’s meds, water bottles, comm-equipped ear defenders, and the red 6-7 bucket hat he’d recovered earlier. If stabilizing the young French dude meant jumping directly into a liquid sand trap behind him, so be it — he’d just have to count on his strength and hope for the best.
High overhead, the blazing light balloon illuminated the boy’s small silhouette, casting the young Frenchman’s tense features into sharp relief as Jean-Pierre locked onto the approaching ‘stranger danger’.
Positioning a flashlight to cast a soft glow on his own face, Chris dropped into a low, non-threatening crouch, hoping the kid would sense a big brother rather than a threat. He laid two heavy wooden crane mats and a six-pack of water onto the sandy path beside him, giving the autistic teenager time to adjust without overloading him with talk.
Taking a slow, deliberate breath, Chris kept his broad hands open and clearly visible in the amber light.
“Bonsoir, Jean-Pierre,” Chris said in his calmest French, keeping his voice down to a soft, rhythmic rumble. “My name is Christopher. I’m not going to crowd you, okay? I’m just going to sit right here.”
The trapped teenager thrashed violently against the packed silt holding him fast. His eyes darted frantically from Chris to the surrounding gloom, his jaw clenched tight.
“N-Non, go away,” he gasped, his breath hitching hard in his throat as he thrashed. “Allez… allez-vous-en. S’il vous plaît. I am scared.”
“I understand, bud. But Yves sent me to find you,” Chris replied softly. Reaching into the yellow duffel, he pulled out the red 6-7 bucket hat, angling it so the flashlight beam illuminated the embroidered logo.
“Look what I snagged out of the briars. Your hat. Your cousin Yves mentioned it was your favorite.”
The sight of the prized hat and the mention of his older cousin visibly settled Jean-Pierre’s panicked breathing. The real breakthrough came when Chris asked if he’d gone hunting for the Islander horses — the nervous stutter vanished instantly, replaced by a sharp, sudden clarity in the boy’s gaze.
“I’ve… We’ve seen you on TV this afternoon! Haven’t we?… Now I remember, you’re Chr…Christopher. You’re that gay guy. Zut alors! Sorry!”
“Don’t be, Jean-Pierre. It’s true, I’m gay, but you’re completely safe with me. How about I move a little closer and get you some water? Yves gave me your medication, too. Plus, we can talk about a horse I know.”
A fresh wave of anxiety flickered across the boy’s face as his overloaded mind struggled to process the cluster of information.
‘Two steps forward, one step back,’ Chris thought, keeping any trace of impatience off his features while giving the kid room to breathe.
Pausing a moment, he offered a simpler approach: “My fiancé works at a stud farm right near your camp. How about a drink of water, Jean-Pierre?”
“O-Oui, s’il vous plaît! Do you own a horse?! I love horses!”
“Oui. Well, Thunder isn’t mine, but if you’re brave, I can take you over to meet him. Would you like that?”
“Don’t talk down to me; I’m not stupid!” the teenager fired back sharply, projecting a sudden spike of pride that belied his small, mud-caked frame.
“Sorry, I can see you’re not,” Chris conceded with a wry grin. “Let me grab my gear and maneuver around behind you. I’m going to make some noise, so just stay as still as you can, Jean-Pierre…”
“Call me JP. You’re hot,” the boy blurted out, a sudden flash of teenage boldness overriding his anxiety as his eyes locked onto Chris’s broad shoulders. “And you’re way bigger than you looked on TV, Christopher.”
Gauging the safest footing around the suction trap, Chris chuckled softly. “Is that right?”
“Oui. Much more muscular and sexy,” JP murmured, a mischievous smirk breaking through his shivering fatigue now that the worst panic had passed.
Stripping off his heavy cargo pants and work boots, Chris tossed the thick timber crane mats into the gully behind the boy — there was no point ruining his clothes in the mud. Stepping off the edge into the cold sludge in just his black trunks, he felt the immediate, sickening suction of the silt locking around his ankles and calves.
Dropping onto his rear end directly behind the teenager to distribute his weight before the sand trap could pull him under, Chris felt the saturated mud liquefy beneath them. Bracing his back and flexing his core, he leveraged his muscle strength, slowly wrestling Jean-Pierre upward until the mud line dropped below the boy’s waist.
A huge gasp of relief escaped JP’s chest as his lungs finally expanded. Now they were well and truly wedged together in the mud, but with Chris wedging his powerful legs beneath the teenager and anchoring a protective arm around his ribs, being stuck out here didn’t feel like the worst place to be.
As the unlikely pair sat trapped in the muck, Chris methodically set to work. Using a splash of bottled water, he rinsed the thick mud from the teen’s face and hands before checking his pulse and pupil response. JP remained surprisingly docile under his gentle touch.
Slipping the 6-7 bucket hat low over Jean-Pierre’s wet forehead, Chris carefully fitted the goggles and communication headset over the boy’s ears. Once the emergency crews swarmed the scene, the teenager would need every bit of sensory deprivation these tools could provide. Chris just hoped help would arrive fast.
A bone-deep exhaustion settled over Christopher. A midnight rescue operation after twenty-two grueling hours on his feet was definitely not on his schedule today.
Fortunately, wheels were already turning across the Island. An Air Force Search-and-Rescue chopper was cutting toward their coordinates, alerted after Jan-Timo and the lighthouse crew spotted the stationary, strobing drone.
Farther down the trail, headlights and blue emergency strobes slashed through the gloom as Chris’s crew closed in. Head Constable Alex van der Meer had tried to slow them down with made-up laws. However, Chris was sure that Inspector Tompson was already dealing with the bureaucratic fool after the junior officers reported his appalling conduct at the weed barn.
With the chopper thrumming directly overhead, Chris keyed his handheld VHF radio and patched straight into the emergency channel.
“CRP-19 Islander Fire Reserve to S&R copter: Autistic patient located. Meds on board. Pulse calmed and breathing steadied, pupils responsive. Kill your searchlights and relay our coordinates to the Fire Department. We have two for extraction from a quicksand trap.”
“Chris?! Is that you, soan? We talked earlier today…” The Air Force pilot broke radio protocol, his voice laced with sudden disbelief before he snapped back to professional discipline as the blinding spotlight veered away from the gully.
“Roger that. Dimming lights. Coordinates forwarded. Ground teams en route, ETA six to eight minutes. Standing by.”
“Won’t be long now, JP,” Chris murmured into the headset microphone. “Just close your eyes and cover your ears. I’m staying right behind you.”
“I-I am scared,” JP stammered. Chris answered by wrapping his thick arm securely across the teenager’s face like a heavy comforter, drawing him tight. Jean-Pierre leaned back into his warmth with a heavy sigh.
A shivering breath escaped Chris’s chest as he smothered a massive yawn. This night couldn’t wrap up fast enough. His wild interactions with the French teens suggested he might end up as an informal mentor for gay-curious guys across the Island. Still, by his original calculations, he was supposed to be fast asleep right now — preferably after getting his ass pinned to the rafters in Wyatt’s bedroom or back at Bathway 78.
First things first, though. Christopher needed to let his crew and the Island Fire Department execute the rescue plan. Then, a quick outdoor shower using the water from his brushfire tank to wash away the worst of the muck, followed by a warm bed. At this point, any mattress on the Island would do.
• Continued in part 36 •
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© StrykerJ - September 2026
