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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 3
• Developing a taste for leather.
When Chris finally woke up, Jelmer was already gone. Despite not having set his phone’s alarm, it was still pretty early. Yesterday’s storm had blown itself out, and the sun was lazily warming the early morning air. He got dressed in some loose-fitting clothes and flip-flops. These old officer lodgings from World War Two were reasonably comfortable, but they lacked a shower. “No, ‘glamping’ this ain’t,” Christopher thought.
With his shower kit and a few towels, he marched himself over to the campground shower block. As he walked past the tents, Chris spotted the guy he’d met on the ferry yesterday. The biker lay in the entrance of his tent, choking the pierced weasel, not caring who watched him wank.
When their eyes met, and the recognition took hold, the pervy biker gestured for Chris to come play with him for a while. Chris shook his head no and showed him his shower gear instead.
The buddies of the nasty man started wolf-whistling as Christopher walked past their tents and motorcycles. They had already built a wall of beer crates, so their holiday was heading ‘in the right direction’.
After a quick morning wank and a cold shower, Chris went to talk with Great-Uncle Ben about the work that needed to be done. Aunt Frida served him a strong black coffee and a thick slice of buttered islander pondkoek. One of those beers from last night had gone down sideways; Chris felt and looked a bit off-color, according to Frida. He failed to mention that her two queer grandsons had been part of the issue, keeping him up all night.
The plan was to tackle one of the two lower blocks of twelve cabins first, and Chris expected they would be done in about five weeks. Technically, they had twelve weeks before the first arrivals, but Chris wanted those rooms ready yesterday. The quicker he finished the first block, the sooner Ben could start turning a profit on the rentals.
Chris walked back to his concrete cabin and stripped out of his shower clothes, reaching for something less touristy. He desperately wanted to fit in with the Islanders. His grandmother had told him the secret to spotting a local years ago: ‘In the heat of summer, the Islanders still wore long-sleeved shirts, whilst the tourists wore nothing at all...’ she had joked.
That bit of wisdom had stuck with Chris like a burr. He knew he was technically an ‘outsider’, but he refused to be just another summer visitor. He moved with a different purpose, carried himself with a heavier stride, and behaved himself accordingly.
His roots went deep here. His father had been born on these sands, and the old man had met his mother while she worked as a maid at a local hotel. Thinking of love — or whatever the hell had happened last night — Chris smiled.
Was he going to fall for an Islander, too? Would it be a girl, or a guy like the ones he’d been dreaming about? Maybe Jelmer. Why the hell not? It wasn’t as if they were directly related, and the chemistry they’d shared was far more potent than shared ancestry.
“Before the real work starts…” Christopher thought to himself, “I’d better get my pantry stocked. Let’s do some ‘window shopping’ in town. Who knows who I’ll bump into?”
Chris took his Uncle Burt’s bicycle and some empty shopping bags he’d borrowed from Aunt Frida and climbed down the steep path off the dunes.
Christopher met one of his childhood friends in the bakery. Skip, the burly twenty-four-year-old baker’s son, worked the counter and waved Chris inside to take his order. This was much to the annoyance of some of the tourists already waiting in line outside the shop.
Chris cut in line when Skip asked, “Hey, Christopher! Back on the island again? What can I get you?”
“No, working for Ben on the bunkers, actually,” Chris explained, sliding over the shopping list and a crisp fifty-euro note he’d earned yesterday. “Here is my order, and keep the change on my tab, Skippy.”
“Hold on! I was here first!” a Karen tourist, smelling strongly of sunblock, yelled.
“My mother will help you shortly, madam. This young stud practically lives here. We always help our own kind first.” He turned back to Chris and said happily, “Cool, let me know if you guys need a hand. Jessie was here earlier. He told me about the work.”
Christopher finished his shopping and, on the way back, saw Aunt Dianna enjoying the early morning sun in the garden. He waved, and she called him over. “Got time for a coffee, Chris?” she called.
Chris visited his Aunt Dianna and talked to her about the work ahead. She suggested her sons might help him. Chris smiled at her and thanked Aunty Dia for the hundred-euro ‘recruitment bonus’ the ferry company had rewarded him for his suggestions.
On the way out, he bumped into Jan-Timo and Peter. Both young men hung out with Chris and the gang. Jan-Timo was barely of age, and Pete was a few years younger than his brother.
“Careful, boys... your mom is trying to put you to work with me,” Chris joked.
“We heard from Jessie that you three are going to fix up the bunkers. Very cool. We’d love to help out,” Jan-Timo said. “In that case, drop by tomorrow, JT. I could use a hand clearing out the furniture from one block of rooms.” Chris thanked the guys for volunteering and went back to his cabin.
A proud tingling sensation spread through his veins as he pedaled away. Being called a ‘stud’ by a local like Skip carried Chris effortlessly up the hill. The way Jan-Timo’s eyes had drifted down, tracking the sneaky bulge in Chris’s jeans, hadn’t gone unnoticed. Even young Peter had a certain spark in his gaze — an eagerness to hang out with the big guys again. Christopher felt the pack dynamic solidifying. “Yup,” he thought, a confident smirk tugging at his lips, “… these are definitely my kind of folks.”
After hauling his shopping back up the dunes, he swapped his town clothes for rugged work gear. Chris was itching to get a head start, his mind still buzzing from the attention in the village. However, the moment the door swung back, an unbearable stench hit him — a thick, cloying mixture of stale sweat, cheap sex lube, and cigar smoke.
Chris winced, quickly moving down the line to throw open every door and window in the block to let the breeze scrub the rooms clean. It didn’t take long to see that the previous guests had been more than just ‘kinky’; they’d been downright feral. Used condoms and half-smoked cigars lay like slugs on the painted concrete floors, marking the spots where the heavy petting had gone down.
As he began to clear the debris, Chris realized some of the ‘nasty crowd’ had been in such a rush to leave that they’d abandoned a small fortune in gear. He found a pair of scuffed, sand-crusted cowboy boots, several heavy-duty silicone toys, and a tangle of leather bondage straps. In the corner of Room Four, a broken sex sling hung limp from the free-standing frame like a fallen trophy. Just looking at the hardware made Chris’s pulse jump. He pictured the group of leather-clad men from the ferry — sweaty, grunting, and bound in leather — tearing each other and the rooms apart.
He moved quickly, documenting the finds before hauling the best of the ‘lost’ baggage back to his own cabin. Most of it was dirty, but it was nothing a little soap and leather conditioner couldn’t fix.
“I’ll give them a good scrub later,” he thought, a dark, horny heat blooming in his chest. “And if no one comes back to claim this shit, I’m going to see exactly how it feels on me. Looking can’t hurt.”
• May 1st — 10:00 AM. Getting stuck in.
Shit, man. Is it me, or is there something wrong with the water? The men on the island are looking at me as if I were a piece of meat. Probably my imagination. There is a group of bikers that wolf-whistled at me. They look so fucking cool, even without their motor gear. But I think I prefer them clad in leather.
Talking of leather... I found some more stuff that piqued my interest. There is definitely a connection there. The more leather, the better it gets. I’ll keep the stuff hidden for now. I definitely want to try it on for looks later, though.
Chris moved through the cabins, stripping linens and flipping mattresses to air them out. Under one mattress, he struck gold: a pair of heavy leather jeans, exactly his size. The sight of them hit him like a physical blow. Within seconds, his work shorts were on the floor, and he was sliding into the black hide.
The superb, skin-tight grip of the leather triggered that same dark, hungry response he’d felt on the ferry. Standing before the mirror, he watched himself manhandle his cock to a frantic, heavy finish. “A jacket yesterday, pants today,” he thought, breathless as he cleaned up. “I’ve earned 150 euros already. God, I fucking love this holiday.”
After the ruined orgasm, Chris quickly swapped the leather back for his cargo shorts. He gathered up his finds and hauled the butch gear back up to his own bunker, stowing the kinky prizes safely under his bed where no one would stumble upon them.
He took a deep, steadying breath, trying to force his pulse to slow down. He really needed to concentrate on the job at hand. “You can’t walk around with a boner all day, Chris,” he thought to himself, just as Jelmer’s voice echoed through the dunes.
“Hey, Chris. Where are you?”
“Over here, stud,” Chris called out, stepping out into the sun to meet him. He walked Jelmer through the devastation: rotted kitchenettes, crumbling plaster, leaky roofs, and floors that needed a total epoxy overhaul.
“Do you think the budget covers all that?” Jelmer asked, looking worried.
“It will, if we use local favors for the heavy lifting,” Chris said, already calculating. “Get Jessie to round up some free labor for a demo party. JT, Pete, and Skippy already said they’d help. And if we grab a van and hit IKEA on the mainland ourselves, we’ll save a fortune on shipping.”
Jelmer grinned, clearly relieved. “Good plan, bro. I’ll ask Grandpa about the van. Let’s get to work.”
The guys spent the afternoon stripping the rooms, clearing decorations from the walls, and hauling utensils from the kitchens. Chris had already texted Uncle George to see if they could run the salvageable kitchen tools through the hotel’s industrial washers. Jelmer drove the crates to the hotel’s back entrance, leaving the grime behind for the professional machines to handle. Meanwhile, Jessie had collected every scrap of linen and the curtains from the cabins, creating a blank slate for Chris to work his magic.
To do the job right, Chris needed heavy equipment to excavate the back of the bunkers and apply a thick layer of waterproofing. They drove to the local builder, where Uncle Burt worked as a foreman. They had exactly what they needed — a small digger and a motorized wheelbarrow.
“Sure, you can borrow the tools,” Burt joked, “… as long as you bring ’em back with a full tank of fuel.”
The men hashed out the rough plans, and Chris placed the orders for materials that had to be shipped from the mainland. Living on the island had its drawbacks — no big-box stores or massive merchant yards, only tourist traps and small boutiques. But the islanders were used to this kind of self-reliance; it was their way of life.
Chris suddenly realized where exactly his knack for planning came from. It was in his blood — the very thing that set islanders apart from the mainlanders. He’d inherited a heavy dose of that grit from his parents.
“I love it when a plan comes together,” Christopher exclaimed.
The two of them heard the double meaning in the words. All they could do was think back to the night before, when they’d all ‘come together’ in a much more visceral way. Jelmer and Chris exchanged a long, knowing look as they left the builder’s yard.
Christopher walked home alone, closing up the bunkers after a grueling day. Once inside his cabin, the exhaustion vanished at the sight of his leather haul.
The gear had cleaned up remarkably well, and he couldn’t resist. He stripped down and began to layer himself in the recovered gear: the ferry biker’s cock strap, a kinky half-body harness, and the leather wristbands. Finally, he slid into the heavy jeans and draped the biker jacket over his shoulders.
Chris looked rugged, dangerous, and entirely kinky. Grabbing his phone, he snapped a selfie of the transformation and sent it to Jelmer before falling into a deep, dark sleep.
At 6:30 AM, the roar of a motorcycle engine shattered the morning silence. Chris lunged out of bed, naked and snarling, and ripped the curtains open. His anger evaporated instantly. Jelmer sat astride his bike in skin-tight black leather overalls, his heavy dick resting casually against the gas tank. Chris threw open the French doors, and Jelmer revved the bike inside, braking just inches from Chris’s bare legs.
“You like?” Jelmer asked, his fingers tracing the bead of pre-cum glistening at his tip.
“Fucking hell, yeah. Get in here — I’m going to rip you in two,” Chris growled, slapping his own hardening meat against his thigh. He threw on his leather jeans and jacket in a blur of motion.
“Get your ass in that sling,” he ordered, pointing to the second bedroom. Jelmer’s eyes widened at the sight of the gear.
“Sir — I’d love to — Sir,” Jelmer panted. He hoisted himself into the sling, propping his heavy motor boots against the chains. The sight of Jelmer’s naked, pale ass framed by the black leather overalls was too much. Chris didn’t reach for a rubber or lube; he didn’t care.
He shoved his cock in raw. Jelmer screamed at the sudden invasion, but the scream quickly turned into a guttural moan. “Oh God… Chris — fuck, yes! Fuck me raw… Fill me up… Shoot it all in my cunt!” Jelmer wailed as his leather master began to drive home. The rhythmic slap of balls against leather-clad cheeks echoed through the bunker, likely waking every camper in the dunes. Chris handed Jelmer his phone. “Get some action shots, babe,” he groaned. Jelmer snapped photos and recorded the savage rhythm of Chris pounding his ass into oblivion.
Chris didn’t stop once he’d unloaded, though. He kept the pace relentless for fifteen minutes, churning the morning load into ‘whipped cream’ before finally pulling out. He rimmed his boy clean, then stood over him with a dark grin. “Room service,” he commanded.
Jelmer licked every stray drop of spunk from Chris’s cock and leathers. But the morning wasn’t over. Chris dropped his jeans and bent over Jelmer’s cross motor, pulling his cheeks wide.
“Your turn. Ride me hard, stud.”
Jelmer gave as good as he got, pumping his rock-hard meat into Chris until he blew a massive load deep inside. They collapsed into each other, tongues tangled and skin slick with sweat. “Best morning workout of my life,” Chris panted, slapping Jelmer’s ass hard.
“Is this the new routine?”
“Every morning,” Chris winked. “But now, get dressed. The crew will be here any minute.”
They swapped the leather for work clothes just as the first volunteers arrived at 8:00 AM. Chris snapped into foreman mode, barking assignments. By dusk, all twelve cabins were stripped to the concrete, steam-cleaned, and prepped for their makeover.
• May 3rd - Before breakfast and an hour at the gym.
Jelly-Belly really is in love with me. And you know what, I don’t mind. A hole is a hole. But damn, his hole feels really good. And the gear, well, I know it’s not mine to keep, but I am glad I got to try it on with ‘biker-boy’ Jelmer. Fuck I didn’t even know he had a bike. He looks good in leather. There is something about sex in leather that excites me more than it should. I guess my brothers were right all along, but what would they say if they found out I exercised Dicky this way?
The next day, after a brutal morning session at the gym with the brothers, Chris hit the builder’s yard. He hauled the excavator back to the dunes and set the crew to work. A team began the heavy graft of digging out the back of the half-buried bunkers for new drainage, while others stripped eighty years of grime from the roofs.
Chris put Jan-Timo and Peter on the industrial sanders. By the end of the day, the three of them were coated in a thick layer of grit and dust. They used a borrowed air compressor to blow the worst of the debris off before stepping into the deserted communal showers of the campgrounds.
The boys’ eyes went wide when they saw Chris’s leather cock strap. Their young cocks jumped to attention instantly. Chris stepped between them, his grin predatory. “Need a hand washing those, guys?” he asked, lathering his palms.
“Why the fuck not?” Jan-Timo breathed.
Chris soaped them both, his hands working their six and seven-inch shafts until they painted the shower wall white. He knew from Jesse’s letters that these two were no strangers to ‘experimenting,’ and seeing them in the flesh confirmed they were growing into a pair of fine Islander stallions. Aunt Dia and Uncle Mathias should be proud of these fine men.
“Drop by anytime,” Chris whispered, leaning in. “Maybe we can all play with Jel and Jes someday.”
“I’d love that,” panted little Peter — a nickname earned by his wiry frame, not his manhood. Jan-Timo didn’t say a word; he simply slid a finger deep into Chris’s hole. Chris didn’t flinch; he arched his back, inviting the intrusion.
“Peter, go get dressed. Tell your mom JT is staying at my place for some extra ‘work’ tonight.” Peter looked disappointed but nodded. “Maybe next year, cuz,” Chris winked, patting the boy’s cheek.
Once the two were alone, Chris shoved the barely legal Jan-Timo into a cubicle. He sucked the boy off briefly before rolling a rubber onto his cock. JT was no virgin to guy-on-guy, but his hunger was raw.
“Let me teach you something, JT,” Chris panted. “Shove that dick in and split me in two.”
Chris braced himself against the wet tiles, rolling his ass upward. He guided JT inside, and the boy grabbed Chris’s hips, driving in with a godly force.
“Fuck, yeah, JT... do me good,” Chris hissed. JT went to town, his long, hard strokes echoing in the small space. Sensing the boy was close, Chris pushed him out and dropped to his knees. He ripped the condom off, desperate for the taste. He deep-throated JT, wanking him fast until the boy lost it, surging a hot load into Chris’s mouth and over his face.
“Spend the night,” Chris managed, licking his lips. “There’s more where that came from.”
He texted Jelmer: ‘Is it okay if JT spends the night? I want to show him the tricks you taught me, Honey.’
The phone rang instantly. “Got your text, you horny faggot!” Jelmer’s voice boomed over the speaker.
“Either get over here and help, or I’m pumping him full myself,” Chris joked.
“Ben worked me raw today, Chris. I need my beauty sleep,” Jelmer laughed, knowing his place in Chris’s bed was secure. “Enjoy the boy. Jessie tells me he’s a beast. Don’t stay up too late.”
After a massive Chinese dinner that left JT claiming he was “too fat to fuck,” Chris proved him wrong, though. He worked the cute boy three ways from Sunday, finally falling asleep with the young Islander locked in his arms.
• Continued in chapter 4 •
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© StrykerJ - February 2026
