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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 4
• A musical merry-go-round.
• Dear Diary
This ‘working holiday’ is turning into a total gear shift. Back in the city, I was just another face, but here? I’ve never felt this kind of heat. These people don’t just accept me; they’re feeding the fire. And my distant relations? They treat me like a king instead of the punchline my brothers turned me into.
I’m heading to the gym now, trailing a heavy scent of last night’s sex. I sort of ‘cheated’ on Jelmer with JT, but since Jelmer gave us his blessing, it felt less like a betrayal and more like an initiation. Now the three of us are hitting the weights together. I’m curious to see how those two ‘work it out’ with me in the middle. Turns out I don’t just like sex with guys — I crave the power of it. Who knew? Ha!
The local gym was packed with Islanders. Getting their early-morning routines in. Chris could tell he was a special case. Typically, this gym was frequented only by Islanders. But no one looked odd at the ‘outsider,’ and that made his day. The early May sun was burning away the sea-fog. Birds were singing, and the Islanders were looking forward to the upcoming tourist season. There was money to be made.
The volunteer group had swelled into a full-blown operation. The local girlfriends had been drafted into the fray, their hands stained with paint and cleaning solvents as they reclaimed the furniture from decades of use. In the shade of the main house, Chris’s grandma, Sofia, and Great-Aunt Frida had established a makeshift sewing command. The rhythmic hum of their machines was constant, churning out window dressings and bedroom curtains designed to give a modicum of privacy.
As Chris surveyed the scene, the ‘outsider’ label felt further away than ever. He saw the way the islanders bound together — a tight, tribal knot of labor and loyalty. It wasn’t just about renovation; it was about survival.
Watching their girls work alongside the studs he’d been training, Chris felt a surge of predatory pride. He wasn’t just a guest anymore; he was the engine driving this entire machine, despite still feeling like an outsider intruding on their turf.
The work was grueling, and as the May sun climbed, the layers of clothing came off. The bunkers became a theater of tanned skin and glistening sweat. Chris pushed the volunteers hard, teaching them the efficiency he’d mastered in the city, but the air was thick with more than just dust.
He watched as ‘two-by-two,’ a guy and a girl, or sometimes two of the lads, would exchange a weighted look before slipping quietly into the surrounding dunes or a half-finished cabin. They’d return twenty minutes later with flushed faces and steady hands, sliding back into the labor without a word spoken. Chris didn’t stop them; he understood that rabbits needed to roam on the Island. It was a feral, honest way to live.
The workweek had seen significant progress. Next week, the guys needed to get to the mainland to get mortar, plaster, paint, sealant, and other building supplies. As well as 30 new kitchenettes and other bits and bobs from IKEA. Most had already been preordered and paid for. They just needed to pick them up.
As the first weekend approached, Jan-Timo pulled Chris aside, his eyes gleaming with something more than just work exhaustion. He pressed six VIP tickets into Chris’s palm.
“May 5th. The Whaler,” JT whispered. “Islanders only. Wessel is playing the annual tourist season opener. And you’re coming with us, Chris. Jelmer, Jessie, Skip, and little Peet are going, too. We want you there!”
Chris’s heart skipped a beat, a sudden, boyish thrill piercing through his muscular exterior. Wessel. The man wasn’t just a singer-songwriter or a beach club owner; he was the voice of the Island. World-famous… in his own living room. Well, he did sell quite a few CDs, and his club was booked solid every holiday season. But he seldom left the Island in search of fame.
Back in the city, Chris had listened to his records on repeat, dreaming of the life Wessel sang about — the loneliness of winter and the feral heat of summer.
The idea of being in the same club, under the same roof as his idol, made Chris’s stomach do a slow, nervous roll. It was a coronation he hadn’t expected. He spent the rest of the afternoon in a haze, the ‘star-struck’ kid from the mainland battling with his feelings. He knew one thing for certain: if he was going to Wessel’s beach club, he wasn’t going to do it as a tourist. He was going to look like he belonged in the front row of a rock concert.
The invitation was more than a friendly gesture — it was a heavy honor that bordered on a burden. During the peak season, the waiting list for The Whaler was a mile long, but for this ‘Islanders Only’ night, the doors were iron-clad. Only a few hundred tickets existed for a population of six thousand. Outside, the rest of the Island would be gathered on the beach and the pastures, huddled around giant video screens and concession stands, watching the local TV broadcast like it was the Super Bowl.
Chris was the impossible exception. The ticket committee — a group of shadows who guarded the Island’s soul — had looked at his bloodline and his work in the dunes and stamped him as one of them. Despite the badge of approval, a cold knot of anxiety twisted in his gut.
Christopher was a mainlander crashing the most sacred private ritual on the Island. He didn’t just want to attend; he needed to prove the committee hadn’t made a mistake. He wouldn’t just be sitting in the crowd; he’d be under the microscope of six thousand islanders, and he needed to look the part of a man who belonged.
• May 5th. Liberation Day party.
Fuck, Leo worked his magic on my hair, and the reflection in the mirror is a stranger — a bad-ass I actually recognize. Tonight’s the night. We’re heading to see Wessel, and the whole Island is decked out in flags and decorations. Even the weather is celebrating. I can already smell the barbecues burning outside The Whaler.
It’s Liberation Day, which is ironic considering that the stripped bunkers look like they were just hit by a fresh blitz. We’re turning these ruins into tourist traps. However, tonight, I’m the one being set free. I’m feeling ten feet tall, dressed like this, and look pretty dangerous. What could possibly go wrong?
Chris met the crew at Aunt Dianna’s, stepping into the room like a storm front. He was draped in his ‘found’ leather pants — the heavy hide clinging to his muscular thighs — and a loose white blouse that billowed just enough to hint at the muscle beneath. On his wrist, the butch leather band felt like a shackle of his own choosing.
He had refurbished the worn — and previously pissed-in — pointy black cowboy boots; they now shone with a predatory luster once more. He’d checked with Great-Uncle Ben and Aunt Frida, but no one had come forward to claim the gear, and Chris wasn’t about to offer it back. The new buff look Chris sported was incredibly cool.
As Chris stepped inside, the transformation hit Jelmer like a physical blow. Surprised and clearly fueled by the sight of Chris in the leather, Jelmer’s usual islander reserve snapped. So much so that he forgot that no one knew yet that he was gay. Or that he was Chris’s boyfriend. He lunged forward, flinging his arms around Chris’s neck and crushing their mouths together in a passionate, tongue-heavy kiss.
The room went dead silent. Skip, Peter, and the aunt and uncle stared, their jaws practically hitting the floor. But Chris didn’t pull away. He leaned into the heat of it, claiming Jelmer back in front of the very people he’d been worried about ‘intruding’ upon. If they wanted him to be an islander, they were going to have to take all of him, including his baggage.
“You can’t change nature or stop true love!” said Aunt Dianna happily.
The surprised tension in the room broke as quickly as it had formed. On this Island, once a truth was on the table, it was simply part of the landscape.
Chris knew the ‘grapevine’ would be humming soon; by the time they reached the club, every soul on the Island would know. He caught himself wondering how long it would take for the news to travel across the water to his own family — and how they’d react to the ‘little runt’ they used to mock for not having a girlfriend. Suspecting he could be turning gay. “Well, they might be right after all…” thought Chris to himself.
The six of them — a phalanx of well-dressed, hungry studs — began the short walk to The Whaler. The beach club sat just outside town, a beacon of wood and glass overlooking the North Sea. The meadow surrounding it was a sea of people, fenced off and dominated by massive video screens and the smell of frying snacks from the concession stands.
A local TV crew was broadcasting the event across the Island. Hundreds of Islanders were already settling in, their eyes fixed on the screens. Tourists were watching in amazement from outside the fenced-off area.
As they reached the VIP entrance, Chris felt the weight of the moment. Their tickets were scanned with a nod of recognition; nobody questioned his presence, yet the ‘outsider’ itch remained. He felt like a rock star in his borrowed leather armor.
They were ushered into the heart of the club, snagging a cluster of leather couches halfway between the bar and the stage. The air inside was electric, smelling of expensive gin and salt air. Chris sank into the hide of the sofa, his refurbished boots propped up and his eyes scanning the room. He had a perfect view of the stage where his idol would soon stand, and he could feel the eyes of the Island’s elite burning into his back.
Wessel — the singer-songwriter of the hour — had already spotted them. He was in his early forties, his face a rugged map of sunlines and late nights, his thick black hair a mane that looked as if it had survived a dozen North Sea gales. He cut through the crowd with the slow, confident gait of a man who owned the very air he breathed. He greeted Jelmer and Jan-Timo as old soldiers — regulars who’d pulled hard shifts behind his bar during the summer rushes.
When Jelmer introduced Chris as his boyfriend and the foreman on the bunker renovations, Wessel gave Chris a hand-crushing grip. He didn’t stand; he perched on the arm of the leather couch, intrusively close. He looked Chris up and down with the practiced eye of a veteran talent scout — and he clearly liked what he saw. In a room full of Islanders in flannel and denim, Chris was the only man wearing leather.
“Looking mighty fine, Chris,” Wessel said, a chucklish wink crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“Thanks… sir,” Chris managed, his voice betraying his awe. His eyes drifted to the row of acoustic guitars lining the wall — vintage instruments that looked as road-worn as their owner.
“You play?” Wessel asked, his voice a deep, gravelly rasp that felt like it could vibrate through the floorboards.
“I… I can make sounds come out of it,” Chris muttered shyly, looking at his boots. “But I’m no professional. Not like you, sir.”
Wessel let out a short, bark-like laugh. He snatched a battered Gibson off the wall and shoved it into Chris’s hands.
“Drop the ‘sir,’ kid. I’m only older than you on the outside. Show me what you’ve got. No shy bullshit tonight — we’re among friends.”
“He’s just worried because he’s an import,” Jelmer added, grinning.
“The ticket says you’re an islander, Chris,” Wessel countered, his gaze piercing. “Now, let’s hear you play.”
Chris took the expensive instrument, but instead of cradling it, he laid it flat across his leather-clad lap. He began slapping and plucking the strings, using the guitar’s body as a drum for a rhythmic, percussive intro. It was one of Wessel’s own hits, but reinvented with a sharp, upbeat city edge. Chris sang with a sudden, fearless strength. Wessel followed, his deep, bourbon-soaked baritone wrapping around Chris’s cleaner tenor until their voices were a single, vibrating force that silenced the club.
The guitar served as a convenient shield for the stiffening boner Chris was sprouting, fueled by the adrenaline of the encounter and the heavy hide he was wearing.
By the second verse, the club had fallen into a stunned silence. Even the TV crew swung their cameras around to catch the impromptu duet. Chris felt a surge of pure ambition; he began stomping his black cowboy boot against the wooden floor, adding a deep, thudding bass drum to the mix. When the final note faded, the room erupted. Chris felt the heat rising in his face, his heart hammering against his ribs.
“Okay, you’ve got a hell of a voice, Chris. Warm-up is over,” Wessel laughed, clapping him on the shoulder with a heavy, calloused hand. “What instruments do you play? Do you write your own stuff?”
“I play around. Mostly drums, guitar, and violin,” Chris admitted, the adrenaline still coursing through him. “But never in a band. I never thought I was good enough as a singer-songwriter.”
“Kid, you’re selling yourself short,” Wessel said, his eyes gleaming with genuine, weathered respect. “That was fucking amazing. We have time. I want to hear some of your own work.”
Chris’s heart did a slow roll in his chest. He had the perfect song hidden in his wallet, sweat-stained and ready.
“I have something,” he said, his voice regaining its edge. “It’s about wishing to live on the Island and be part of this great community.”
Wessel scanned the lyrics, his eyes sharpening as he read. “Play it. Now.”
The club went ghost-quiet as the TV crew moved in, microphones hovering like vultures. Chris’s intro was soft and haunting, a melody that felt like a cold fog rolling off the North Sea. When he sang about the curse of the summer tourist and the sacred loneliness of the winter, he didn’t just hit notes — he hit a nerve.
When the last chord faded, the room was paralyzed. Wessel sat back, wiping a stray tear from his weathered cheek before pulling Chris into a rough, bone-crushing hug.
“That was bloody beautiful,” Wessel rasped. Outside, the roar of the hundred-strong crowd hit the building like a tidal wave.
Wessel wanted it for the main stage immediately, but Chris held up a hand. The ‘import’ was gone; the Alpha was speaking.
“You can record that song, Wessel. On one condition: ten percent of everything it makes goes to a fund for the Island’s youth. Keep the kids here. Give them a future on this dune.”
Wessel’s grin was predatory and proud. “Deal.”
The crowd erupted again — Chris hadn’t just written a song; he’d written a manifesto. The next few hours were a blur of high-voltage energy. Chris didn’t just open the show; he took command.
He swapped his guitar for the drum throne on stage, kicking off a four-count that shook the rafters. With Wessel’s raspy growl leading the verses and Chris’s boyish tenor anchoring the chorus from behind the kit, the song transformed into a rock anthem. It had teeth now. It had a heartbeat.
As the final crash of the cymbals died out, the Mayor herself intercepted Chris on his way back to the couches. She pinned a silver crest to his shirt — the Island Pin.
“You’re one of us now,” she whispered proudly. “Wear it with pride.”
Chris raised the pin to the TV cameras, a silent salute to his grandmother watching at home. He slumped back onto the leather couch next to his crew, his chest heaving.
“Now a beer, and a great time before the tourists come!” Chris shouted in the local dialect, his voice booming through the still-live microphones. The crowd outside answered with a thunderous cheer, and from the stage, Wessel flashed him a respectful thumbs-up. The outsider had officially conquered the Island.
The group didn’t stay for the full two-hour set. The energy inside The Whaler was too bright, too public. They bowed out gracefully after the second break. Chris, fueled by the adrenaline of the performance and a heavy haze of gin, signaled the guys. They moved as one — a burly pack of young men cutting through the cheering crowd, ignoring the hands reaching out to touch the ‘new Islander.’
They didn’t head for Aunt Dia’s. Chris invited the guys for a drink at his concrete cabin. The commander’s bunker was big enough for an afterparty.
Under the pale moonlight, the unfinished concrete structures looked like ancient altars. The honorary ‘Islander Pin’ on Chris’s white shirt caught the light as he led them up the steep dune behind the town.
Chris had prepared his lodging for a night of heavy… Umm… Drinking. As soon as the first bottles of beer and soda were uncorked, the polite veneer of the public concert vanished. The bunker air grew heavy with the scent of men and beer.
Jelmer moved in first, his eyes dark with a mix of pride and raw hunger. He didn’t just touch Chris; he gripped him, his calloused fingers tracing the heavy, structured leather of Chris’s ass.
“You were a God out there,” Jelmer rasped, the words vibrating against Chris’s neck for the others to hear. “But in here? You’re just our piece of Islander bull-meat. God, I love you, Chris! You were amazing!”
The room ignited. Little Peter claimed Jessie’s horny lap, and Skippy and Jan-Timo tangled together in a mess on the leather couch. The heavy-duty sex sling Chris had spent his nights refurbishing finally found its true purpose — creaking under the weight of the Island’s finest studs.
Even the youngest two didn’t feel left out; while Peet held back from being taken, he was a vital part of the heat, his hands and mouth working as hard as the rest.
The bunker became a frantic theater of sweat and friction. Every hole was claimed, stuffed, and bred. It was a sneaky orgy of raw masculinity, the sound of rhythmic thuds against concrete echoing until the early hours.
By 2:00 AM, the carnage finally stilled. In the three bedrooms, the single beds were shoved together, each occupied by two guys. The curtains between the concrete partition walls were drawn, and the six of them collapsed —sleeping arm-in-arm. They were no longer just friends or volunteers; they were a tribe, and they had plenty of nights left to do it all over again.
The next morning, after the guys had finally woken up, they half-nakedly ate breakfast together. Peet was still clinging to Jessie, sharing his buttered jam toast. The evening’s events had clearly given the two youngsters a renewed lease on life.
Bare-chested and still sporting a morning tent in his slacks, Peet was the first to head out for a shower. Chris watched him walk up the dune toward the area where the mainland bikers camped.
Chris slipped into his leather jeans and those fucking cool cowboy boots, following ten minutes later. He wasn’t far from the block when a familiar screeching voice rent the air. Chris had heard enough. He fired a text to Jelmer: “9 1 1 shower block one PEET in deep shit!”
He didn’t hesitate. Chris burst into the showers and planted a pointy field goal between the lead predator’s feet. As the man crumpled, the rest of the pack — Jelmer, Skip, JT, and Jessie — burst in like a storm front, preventing the biker buddies from jumping Chris. It was five Islanders against five pretenders. The fight was short and brutal.
Jan-Timo unhooked his younger brother from the leather straps and guided him outside. Peter didn’t need to see the rest. The bikers had strung him up between the partition walls; his naked ass was bright red from the paddling they’d given him. It had taken five of them to subdue one boy. And they were just starting. Their stiff, hairy dicks were already poking out of their leather gear.
Christopher stood over the wreckage, looking down at the dirty fuckers. “Strip!” he ordered, his voice cold as iron. “You just lost your leather privileges, perverts. Pack your shit… you’re on the next ferry out of here.”
Fists flew and boots kicked until these so-called ‘tough guys’ instantly folded. They were nothing more than middle-aged bullies preying on the young.
“You can’t mean that!” one shouted.
“It’s that… or I call the police and your wives,” Chris shouted back. “Besides, these studs look way better in this gear than you ever did.”
The guys had never seen men undress faster. The humiliated bikers scrambled toward their tents in their graying underwear, racing for the harbor to catch the first boat home. Chris found Peet outside, clutching a towel. He handed him the jacket of the smallest biker.
“They wanted you to have this,” Chris said with a wink, pulling him into a brotherly hug. “You okay, Peet? Did they —?”
“Nah… I’m fine. Just a bruised ego and a red ass,” Peet whispered, sliding into the heavy buff leather. “My own fault for thinking I could play with the big men, too.”
“No one needs to hear about this, but don’t be in such a fucking hurry to grow up, buddy,” Chris said sternly but kindly. “You’re only young once. Practice on someone of your own size. I think Jessie’s willing to volunteer.” He caught Jessie’s eye with a dirty grin. Jan-Timo handed Peet his slacks and walked with the rest back to Chris’s cabin to divide the looted spoils.
Chris watched the eyes of his friends light up as the hide encased their rugged frames — a feeling he knew all too well. The intimate weekend wasn’t over, and Bunker-HQ descended into vicarious pleasures that none of them had ever imagined.
• May 6th, 10:38 AM. Poor Horny Peter.
I can still feel where my pointy boot met that bastard’s naked groin. I hope I crushed his balls! He deserved it. It felt good. Better than it should have. Seeing Peet strung up like that — it wasn’t just ‘pervy,’ it was a goddamn violation of everything this Island is supposed to be. Those guys came here wearing the leather hide as if it were a costume for their own depravity. They thought that because they were older and had the gear, they owned the place. They were wrong! We pwned them, good. And the ‘loot’ doesn’t look half bad on the guys. Skippy and JT snatched some more bondage gear as the basterds fled the Island.
Peet is okay, or he will be. I saw him later, wearing the cool biker jacket, looking at Jessie like he was his whole world. Aww… young love! Even the baker and Jan-Timo hit it off well. And as for Jelmer? I think I may move in with him if he keeps this up. I am so fucking hard for him.
The men took a two-day break from the build. They were ahead of schedule, and as the May school holidays wound down, Chris finally explored his kingdom. Everywhere he went, he was recognized. The performance with Wessel made him a star, but the rumors of the shower-block rescue made him a legend. By the time he gave his statement to the local police, Chris knew he wasn’t just visiting anymore. He belonged.
• Continued in chapter 5 •
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© StrykerJ - February 2026
