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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 36
• Puppy love and lost Sheep.
As the Air Force search-and-rescue helicopter thundered away, the first headlights of the rescue convoy pierced the dark in the distance, banking onto the deserted trail toward the gully.
Cracking open his comms link, Chris switched VHF channels and keyed the mic. “CRP-19 to rescue crew. Good to see you guys. Do NOT hurry — we’re just taking a casual mud bath.” He let out a breathless chuckle. “Mind you follow my tire tracks, though. There are several quicksand pits ahead. Park behind my rig. Keys are in the ignition — use the water tank on my truck to flush out my hole.”
“10-4, buddy,” Mark Evens confirmed over the speaker. He and three other fellow first responders led the team from their fire rescue truck.
A sudden wave of giddy relief washed over Chris, defying his bone-deep fatigue. Still, he was just thankful this endless day was finally nearing its end.
Jean-Pierre glanced nervously over his shoulder. “C–Chrisss, I–I am scared. What are they going to do?” JP stammered.
“I know you’re worried, mon ami, but these guys are my friends,” Chris offered warmly, leaning in to whisper, “And a few of them are gay, too — but keep that our little secret. It’ll be over in no time.”
A heavy sigh shuddered out of JP, hovering somewhere between panic and relief.
“Those beefy firefighters are going to sink a metal lance into the sand and loosen it with pressurized water,” Chris explained softly. “The rest of the crew will haul you free. Don’t be scared — I’ll let them know you’re tense.”
“I’m not nervous,” JP insisted, though his trembling frame said otherwise. “I’m scared it’s going to hurt… like sex with a guy.”
A sharp bark of a laugh burst from Chris’s chest. “Ha! That’s exactly what Yves thought, too. Don’t fear a little water, or the sex. It’s going to get messy, but we’ll take a warm shower together afterward — and that goes for any of the guys you fancy, too.”
The nervous cogs in Jean-Pierre’s autistic brain visibly stalled while he processed the sass.
Goldilocks rumbled back to life, the deep thrum of its Hemi V8 diesel echoing across the quiet nature reserve. Ground spotters on foot guided the rig along solid ground toward the site. And the ‘Gay-Team’ moved behind them with the rescue gear. Wyatt even dragged an old surfboard across the marsh, laying it down as a buoyant platform for the responders. At the same time, they prepped the high-pressure mud lance around JP and Chris.
Switching off the flashing rescue beacon, Chris dialed up the balloon light’s flood function, bathing the gully in a bright, even glow so the teenager could track every movement. Working with practiced efficiency, the team laid down rescue ladders, Okko retrieved Chris’s discarded pants and boots, and Wyatt anchored the surfboard directly in front of the trapped pair.
As Mark slid across the ladder onto the floating board, JP stiffened against Chris’s chest. “C–Chrisss… Help!” the boy cried out.
“I’m right here, buddy. Focus on my voice — deep breath,” Chris reassured him over the headset radio.
Throwing up a hand, Chris called for an immediate hold. The entire crew froze.
“Jean-Pierre. I know you’re frightened. I’m stuck right here with you. We need these guys to pull us clear, but I’m not going anywhere,” Chris promised softly.
“See that tough guy right in front of you? That’s Paramedic Mark Evens,” Chris continued, keeping his tone measured. “Stick to him the same way you stuck to Yves and me. He’s on our team, bud. Take a deep breath, reach out, and give him a big muddy hug — he’ll love it.” Chris offered a gentle grin, gesturing for Mark to take JP’s shivering hands.
As pressurized water flooded the silt around their legs and broke the vacuum seal, Mark hauled the small teenager free in seconds. The water ran ice-cold, and the mud reeked of rotten eggs, swamp gas, and manure — a stench foul enough to turn a weak stomach. Escorting JP over to Goldilocks, Mark left the ‘Gay-Team’ grinning down at the trapped muscle twunk. For all the raw strength Chris had built up over the summer, he was completely immobilized.
“What the fuck are you doing down there? A grown man playing in the mud!” Wyatt teased, a smirk breaking across his face. “Get out of there this instant, Chrissy, or you’ll catch your death.”
“Asshole!… Stop laughing and throw me a line so I can yank you in!” Chris shot back playfully. “We can do some naked mud wrestling — loser gets fucked!”
The predawn banter sent a wave of laughter through the firefighters and Islander crew as the team maneuvered the lance and pulled Chris free from the mire.
Trekking back toward the truck barefoot in his trunks, Chris spotted Jean-Pierre standing rigid beside Mark. Stepping over, he wrapped the teenager in a warm, muddy embrace and pressed a gentle kiss to his shivering forehead.
Both of them were caked in thick grime, but Goldilocks was built for field work. As the auxiliary hot-water showerhead spluttered to life, clouds of steam billowed into the chilly night air. Chris rinsed himself down first, peeling off his filthy brushfire shirt and letting his wet trunks hit the ground with a heavy slap. While the crew turned away, the teenager caught a direct view of Chris’s heavy length, breaking into a childish grin.
“I see your wee-wee!” JP called in a sing-song kind of voice.
After he washed the worst of the muck from his shriveled sack, Chris stepped commando in his brushfire pants. Signaling the firefighters to hold up a protective tarp, Chris helped JP strip down and rinse off under the hot spray. The steamy water worked wonders, soothing the boy’s shivering frame beneath the dark sky before Chris dressed him in an oversized spare shirt and shorts from his cab.
By 2:30 AM, Mark Evens rode shotgun beside Jean-Pierre as Chris navigated Goldilocks back toward the ‘weed barn’. Despite the crowd gathered outside the complex, JP locked his gaze on his older cousin waiting near the entrance.
Scrambling out of the cab, Jean-Pierre sprinted straight into Yves’s arms, sobbing with relief. The twenty-one-year-old lifted his younger cousin off his feet and held him in an intense, emotional embrace. As Mark approached, Yves offered the paramedic a warm, intimate fist bump — a subtle gesture telling Chris that Mark and Yves had indeed gotten a little intimate to soothe the older French twink’s frayed nerves. That story, however, could wait until morning.
Exchanging a high-five with Yves, Chris introduced Nurse Johanna and Doc Hardt to the exhausted campers. He gave JP’s back a reassuring pat, pushing the dude and his cousin back toward the ‘weed barn’ and a warm bed. He offered his goodbyes to the campers and Johanna Teller. She would look after the campers that night.
The Island crew began dispersing into the night as well. It had been an extraordinary, surreal day. Oddly enough, between the wild encounter earlier and the successful midnight rescue mission, the ‘Gay Team’s’ bond felt tighter than ever.
After exchanging tight hugs with the crew, Chris watched his friends head home. Chris and Wyatt had only a short two-hundred-yard stretch back to the Teller stud farm, where Maren and her partner, Jennise, met the exhausted pair as they stepped out of the truck.
“Eau de Cologne du Rotten Eggs?” Jennise teased, catching a lingering whiff of marsh gas as Chris approached.
“Ha! He went fishing for bog-goblins,” Wyatt shot back with a laugh.
“And it looks like he landed a big one. Well done, Chris — come inside and wash off,” Maren chuckled warmly.
Over by the whelping pen, the black Labrador puppy, Duke, stood balanced on his hind legs, eagerly waiting to be lifted out.
“Wy-rat? Mind if I bring this little teddy bear to bed with us?” Chris asked, glancing over at Maren for approval. The vet tech offered a warm nod.
“Sure, but hit the shower first — you reek!” Wyatt grinned.
Following a thorough soapy scrubbing and a long-awaited piss, Chris emerged to find the puppy fast asleep across Wyatt’s lap. Leaning down, he pressed a tender kiss to his fiancé’s lips, their shared warmth easing the tension in his shoulders.
“What a surreal night,” Chris muttered softly.
“Thanks…” Wyatt whispered in reply.
“Thanks for what?”
“For an incredible day. For asking me to marry you. For all of it. You’re my hero, Chris — you really are.”
“Ha, I’m no hero. Just helping out where I could… but can we please crash? I’m completely dead on my feet.”
Rolling onto Wyatt’s water bed under the attic eaves, Chris cradled Duke in the crook of his arm. The puppy snuggled instantly into place, resting his muzzle against Chris’s tattooed chest. Leaning down, Chris kissed the pup’s silky black ear, the tiny weight grounding him like a fuzzy heated blanket. In that quiet moment, surrounded by warmth, he felt an overwhelming surge of affection for both his pup and his fiancé. Duke let out a soft sigh, matching Chris’s heavy yawn as sleep claimed them both.
Wyatt slid into bed behind him, pulling a light quilted sheet over the pair before pressing a gentle kiss to Chris’s cheek.
“Night, love.”
Chris drifted into a restless sleep, his mind racing through the challenges he’d faced across the Island since April and the looming pressure of the final site inspections the following week.
Just past 5:00 AM, Chris blinked his eyes open as Duke licked his nose with a soft, high-pitched whine. Watching the puppy’s wiggling tail, Chris offered a sleepy smile.
“Wanna go potty?” Chris whispered softly. “I need a piss, too. Come on, boy — let’s not wake up your other daddy.” The puppy wriggled in agreement, as if understanding every word.
Stepping out to the edge of the driveway in a pair of Wyatt’s oversized sweatpants and flip-flops, Chris lowered the pup onto the damp grass. The yard lights flicked on overhead, illuminating Jennise, Maren’s lesbian partner. A flash of purple in her hair caught the glow as she draped a casual arm across Christopher’s broad shoulders.
“Rough night?” she murmured into the quiet dark.
“Yeah, sort of. I’m kind of worried about a lot of things right now,” Chris admitted, his voice raspy with sleep.
“Well, don’t worry about your truck, Chris. I’ve already fixed the CB antenna and sanded down the worst burrs on the passenger door. Took photos for your insurance, too. Who keyed your rig, anyway?”
The words took a long moment to process through his sleep-deprived brain. A brief two-hour nap after twenty-two continuous hours on his feet hadn’t done much to clear the fog.
“Got no idea! I guess whoever did it isn’t the brightest spark plug in the box. Are… are you handy with cars, then, Jenny?” Chris asked.
“Ha… yeah, you could say that. I run the Tractor Supply garage,” Jennise replied with a proud smirk. She certainly looked the part, and Chris instantly recognized a fellow gearhead in the Latina mechanic.
“We maintain most of the Islander farm equipment. Here’s my card. Drop by on Monday, and we’ll get your door sorted out, Chris. We can slap a magnetic panel over the scratch until we prep it for paint.”
Turning toward her, Chris gently squeezed Jennise’s hands in his. “Thanks, ma’am. I really appreciate it.”
“Bro, don’t go all formal on my ass. Heck, Mare told me you already took hers. I wouldn’t mind if you became my baby daddy,” Jennise said, a teasing glint flashing in her dark eyes.
“Excuse me? Ha! Girlfriend, take a number…” Chris spluttered in genuine shock.
“I mean it, Chris. Maren is all for starting a family the artificial way… but I’d rather have a real stud like you to do the honors.”
“Geez, Jenny! I’d have to think about that. Maren is going to be my sister-in-law. And is she really ready for a baby? She’s only eighteen.”
“Hmm… yeah, I see what you mean, Chris. Go back to bed and get some sleep. You look like you’re about to collapse.”
Leaning in, Chris tilted his head and kissed the twenty-three-year-old mechanic — a deep, tongue-entangled, slobbery mouth-lock right there in the Tellers’ driveway. They broke apart minutes later, looking equally stunned.
“Don’t worry about it, Jenny. When the time is ripe, and Maren is ready, we can give it a go the natural way. But it’s going to have to be a three-way.”
“Deal… You drive a hard bargain, Chris,” she grinned, her hand sliding down to cup the stiff shaft straining through his sweatpants. “I do like the bigger tools, I guess… but damn, bro, I’d need some practice to make that one fit,” Jennise joked as Chris gathered up his puppy and headed back inside, blowing a playful kiss over his shoulder at the flustered Latina.
Back in the bedroom, Chris sat on the edge of the mattress watching Wyatt sleep. He pulled out his notebook and began putting his thoughts down on paper:
• Dear Diary: Sunday Morning — 5:22 AM.
What a day. Twenty-four straight hours of mayhem, frayed nerves, and surreal discussions. Sure, it had its moments — the best part was definitely snagging that leather gambler-style cowboy hat. And look at my man sleeping right here. I still can’t believe Wytze Teller actually said yes. We’re getting married.
When would be a good time, though? Not today or tomorrow, obviously, but sometime soonish. That’s the real question.
1.) ☐ This year, at the end of summer (August or early September),
2.) ☐ Early autumn (late September or October),
3.) ☐ Next year, before the tourist season begins (April or May-ish),
4.) ☐ Somewhere in the autumn,
5.) ☐ Later, after we’ve learned to live together, or,
6.) ☐ All of the above.
I’ll have to run it by Wyatt, of course, though I already know what I’d pick. First things first, though. A mountain of work is waiting back at the campgrounds to get the bunkers ready for the final inspections on Wednesday. I don’t know why I am this anxious all of a sudden. I know I can’t change the tides, but I don’t want to drag any of my friends or family down with me. The folks at Chitty Hall are going to blame me. I feel like I am drowning. I need my space. If anything, I HAVE to do this on my own. See you on the other side.
#sigh.
The moment Christopher laid his weary head back against the pillow, pulling Duke snug between them, his lights went completely out.
Morning sunlight streamed high over the eastern dike when Chris finally stirred. For the first time since April, no alarm had jarred him awake. It was well past ten o’clock when he drifted into consciousness, anxious for the week ahead, yet surprisingly centered. Duke had already been whisked away somewhere downstairs, leaving the room quiet enough for Chris to process the whirlwind of the past twenty-four hours. Work called, and time was burning.
Dressing in a spare pair of Wyatt’s clothes, Chris caught sight of his open notebook. Wyatt had taken the time to read the latest entry, neatly checking the boxes next to 4. ☑ and 5. ☑. An autumn wedding next year appealed to Wyatt, though he clearly intended for them to move in together long before then.
A deep, whistling sigh escaped Chris as he read the note Wyatt had pinned to the diary page:
Chris,
Take your time, love. Get the bunkers at the campgrounds ready for the final inspection on Wednesday. I’ll make sure the guys leave you to it. Don’t worry, my ass ain’t going anywhere without you. If you need a talk, a shoulder, a hug, or more, you know where to find me.
Regardless, whatever you do next, make sure you get over to the old church in Middelland before 3 PM. Apparently, your antics from this morning and yesterday’s proposal had some profound effect on the Islanders from east to west. They will congregate in the middle at an impromptu ecumenical Sunday service. And you, Christopher de Boer, ‘Must’ attend this. And do bring your guitar!PS. Colt, I’ve laid out Dad’s blue blazer if you don’t have one of your own. See you at three. Don’t be late! This is important to me (and half the Island!)
Love, Wyatt.
Chris reluctantly grabbed Otto’s old Sunday jacket, though every instinct balked at going. Impromptu spectacles were decidedly not his speed, and he hadn’t set foot inside a church service in over a decade. Yet if it meant this much to Wyatt, he had no choice but to grin and bear it.
Inspecting the damage on Goldilock’s passenger-side door, Chris saw that Jennise Vargo had already prepped the worst of it. She had slapped the magnetic music logo over it to hide it completely.
Passing through Middelland on the main road, heavy preparations for a major gathering met his eye. Open pastures had been marked out as temporary parking lots, and giant broadcast screens were going up around the historic church grounds.
First, however, urgent chores at the campgrounds in West demanded Chris’s attention. The rented crowd-control barriers and market stalls, from Saturday’s market fair, needed to be hauled away, and the last piles of debris had to be cleared. Upon arrival at the grounds, however, the heavy lifting was already finished. All that remained was retrieving his heavy crane mats and power-washing the access roads. The runoff gave the trampled grass and flower beds a welcome drink, and the cleaning crew had left all twenty-four cabins immaculate, right down to freshly scrubbed windows.
With that major weight lifted, Chris raced back to Bathway 78 against a shrinking clock. He unhooked the auxiliary water tank and unloaded the truck, then stowed his electric all-terrain bicycle in the truck bed.
Chris changed into sleek black dress trousers, a crisp white button-down with a narrow leather tie, and Otto Teller’s bright blue blazer. It fitted surprisingly well across his bulging shoulders. Though the bold color felt a bit flashy — even for the local pint-sized celebrity he’d unexpectedly become. Buffing his leather cowboy boots back to a high sheen, he set out toward Middelland.
Stopping off at Jennise’s garage along the route, he traded the truck for his bicycle, slinging his guitar case across his back like a rucksack. Time was running razor-thin, yet he still hadn’t grasped that the massive gathering was centered entirely around him. However, the sight waiting in Middelland’s central square brought him to a dead halt. The main thoroughfare through town, surrounding the historic church, had been transformed into an immense outdoor sanctuary. Endless blocks of folding chairs stretched as far as the eye could see, all oriented toward giant LED screens airing Father Dirksoan’s live sermon.
The rotund Catholic priest was droning on about ‘lost sheep’ and ‘the good shepherd guarding his flock’ — the exact brand of dry, somber preaching Chris remembered enduring during his childhood back home.
As Chris pushed through the central avenue toward the Neo-Renaissance church structure, broadcast cameras from the Islander News Network swung around and locked onto his approach.
Surrounding the rows of seating, the rest of the Island’s population packed every available inch of pavement. Onlookers stood three-deep along the storefronts, leaning against brick garden walls and peering out from second-story windows all down Main Street.
Children perched atop their parents’ shoulders while summer tourists held up smartphones to capture the scene. Even the historic Midslânder Kerk, rarely opened for standard services, was packed to the wooden rafters.
Despite the solemn occasion, a distinct, electrified tension hummed through the crowd. Chris was undeniably the guest of honor — arriving fashionably late, walking to his own rhythm with a shy, unfamiliar smile.
He felt like an imposter. They had the whole narrative twisted; he’d simply pitched in during an emergency and pulled a stuck kid out of the mud. Nothing to throw a parade over.
Familiar faces lined the walkway, though. Half the French camping group sat near the front row, with Jean-Pierre and Yves positioned right up center. Chris paused to check on JP, and the teenager instantly sprang up, wrapping his arms around Christopher in a tight, suffocating embrace.
A wave of quiet “Oohs” and “Aahs” swept through the crowd, sending a shiver through them both. The story of the early-morning rescue had clearly spread like wildfire. Chris smiled, giving JP’s back a warm pat before exchanging a firm fist-bump with Yves, then turned toward the church’s double doors.
An honor guard flanked the gravel path through the churchyard. Dressed in full formal tunics, half of the Island’s Police and Fire Department forces lined the approach, their dress shoes polished to a mirror shine and white service caps gleaming under the afternoon sun. Their brass buttons and silver service medals glinted in the light.
“Attention!” Inspector Tompson’s booming voice barked from the front of the line.
The sudden command startled Chris as the two lines on either side of the path snapped to attention, white-gloved hands coming up to their brows in a crisp, unison salute.
Christopher wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole. Standing there in a borrowed blazer with a guitar on his back, he felt hopelessly out of place receiving formal honors for pulling a kid from a sand trap.
Walking down the gauntlet, Chris halted near the Police Chief and Chief Inspector at the front of the lines. He pivoted on his boot heels, weighing his options: ‘Do I salute back, or just nod?’
Finding a middle ground, he clicked his heels together and offered a sharp nod to the Police Chief. Straightening up, he gave a two-finger Scout salute followed by another crisp nod. Unorthodox, but effective. Turning a full hundred and eighty degrees, he repeated the exact sequence for the Fire Chief.
Father Dirksoan was bringing his sermon to a close as Chris reached the heavy oak doors. Inside the packed nave, the congregation watched the external video feed with bated breath. Catching snippets of the message as he walked up, Chris noted that the priest had cited nearly every biblical passage mentioning sheep — lost, strayed, or guided home.
Chris let out a soft sigh. Unslinging his guitar case to hold it by his side, he stepped up to one of the live broadcast cameras near the entryway. Inspired by the relentless theme of the sermon, he cupped a hand around his mouth and let out a tentative, pitch-perfect bleat: “Baa-ah-aa…”
No response came from his crew inside, so he took a deeper breath and called out louder, letting the sound echo through the archway: “BÂHH-AHH-AARH?!” He cupped an ear, listening for any response from inside.
From the very front pew, the lead sheep immediately answered the call. “Bhaaa-Ahh!” Wyatt bleated back — signaling, ‘Over here, soan!’
Jan-Timo and Peter instantly chimed in together, “Bàhhh-aa!” — echoing, ‘He’s here!’
Okko and the rest of the mud-rescue crew couldn’t hold back, joining in on the joke. Out in the square, even the French campers picked up the chorus.
Within seconds, the call rippled back through the pews until the entire building sounded like a stampeding flock greeting its lost black sheep.
Father Dirksoan chuckled, shaking his head in amused resignation as the barnyard chorus broke the solemn Sunday tension and instantly transformed the heavy atmosphere inside the historic sanctuary.
Chris stepped over the threshold as if tracking the flock’s calls. The camera crew captured every step, broadcasting his entry across every screen inside and out. He strolled down the center aisle toward the front pew, where the team had saved a spot right beside the altar.
Leaning over as Chris sat down, Wyatt whispered under his breath over the lingering laughter, “Finally! We had to start without you, bro. I thought you weren’t… cumming.”
Chris just grinned as Wyatt’s face instantly flushed bright crimson.
• Continued in part 37 •
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© StrykerJ - September 2026
