⁕ Disclaimer:
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.
⁕ © Copyright:
All copyrights to this story remain strictly that of the author. No other publication, use, or reproduction of this story or parts of this story is allowed without the author’s written consent. It is published on www.gaydemon.com. Under the pseudonym of StrykerJ.
⁕ Thanks for reading:
👍 LIKE or RATE IT. That is appreciated. Or leave a comment or a question after you’ve read this story. Thank you very much.
A gay summer Holiday – Chapter 7
• Once you go black...
The mid-May morning sun over Amsterdam was far too bright. It sliced through the gap in the hotel curtains like a physical blade, hitting Chris square in the eyes. His head throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache. He hadn’t slept all that well — the big city was just too loud. Chris longed for the quiet of the Island.
Beside him, Jelmer was already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. Jel’s new leather chaps from the wild night before lay rolled up on the floor, looking less like a kinky getup and more like a discarded skin.
Chris sat up, his muscles screaming. “Jel? You okay?”
“I don’t know, Chris. Last night was — a lot,” Jelmer replied without turning around.
“I know, babe, but didn’t you have fun with that Mark?”
“Sure, but — Oh, well, forget it. We need to catch a ferry. And I can do with a strong black coffee.”
An hour later, the men hit the Ikea loading bay and loaded the large van with kitchen sets and generic decorations. The four guys stowed away thirty of everything. At the builders’ yard, they repeated the process. The van could barely hold the plywood, the slatted acoustic soundproofing panels, water heaters, air-conditioning units, and the other bits and bobs Chris would need for the twenty-four lower lodgings. He even got paint guns and concrete tools, not to mention the heavy rolls of waterproofing and drainage tiles.
The drive back to the ferry felt different somehow. Unlike the trip up, a usually chatty Jelmer didn’t say a word. Maybe it was because he was the one driving, or maybe because something else weighed on his mind. Chris did not know. But the familiar sight of the lighthouse from the first afternoon ferry was a heartwarming relief.
Jan-Timo walked home, and Jelmer dropped Skippy off at the bakery in town. The two friends parked the supplies at the Harbour View campgrounds, and Jelmer took Christopher to his little farmhouse in the middle of the Island for an overdue lunch. Seeing the one-bedroom dwelling finally cheered him up.
The late lunch was a quiet, suffocating affair. The way Jelmer puttered around the tiny kitchen told Chris everything he needed to know — he was intruding. They both needed to decompress, and Christopher had work to do at the campground.
“I’m going to head back to the bunkers for a few days,” Chris said softly, the words cutting through the silence like a dull saw. Jelmer froze, bread halfway to his mouth, his jaw tightening. “I think we both need to think this dating thing over, babe.”
“Yeah,” Jelmer exhaled, finally meeting Chris’s eyes with a look of pained relief. “Maybe that’s for the best.”
Chris spent twenty minutes packing his bag. He gave Jelmer a chaste kiss — a far cry from the leather-clad passion of the club — and cycled back to the Harbour View build site.
As Chris put the bicycle away in the shed at the foot of the dune, a sharp, blue flash of the police siren from a parked patrol Jeep caught his attention. Officer Thomas was reclined in the driver’s seat, watching him. He gave a lazy, two-finger wave, beckoning Chris over. His bare arm, resting on the windowsill, looked like it had been carved from obsidian. The Caribbean hulk was easily six-four — with shoulders that strained against the seams of his uniform.
His skin was a flawless black, and his eyes, hidden behind dark aviators, tracked Chris with predatory stillness.
“Oh fuck… here we go,” Chris thought, his heart jolting. He wondered if this was about the gear they’d snatched from last week’s pervy bikers. Officer Thomas was a notorious hard-ass, but the sneaky way he adjusted his sunglasses as Chris approached felt less like a police check and more like a challenge.
“Hey, Chris… Tell Jelmer he needs to drive that 1960s rusty blue Army Jeep more slowly. I saw him tearing away from the harbor like the devil was trying to rail his ass,” Officer Thomas laughed, the deep rumble of his voice vibrating through the police Jeep’s door. The thirty-eight-year-old Sergeant was usually friendly with the locals, but his motto remained, ‘Here to serve, but rules are rules.’
“I’ll tell him… whenever I catch him,” Chris replied, leaning his weight against the patrol car. He gave a sharp, slightly mean laugh. “But at the speed he was going, that’ll be hard for me to do. Seeing as I only have a bicycle and he’s clearly in a rush to get laid.”
Officer Tom laughed hard at that, his eyes tracking the way Chris’s posture had shifted. “A bicycle, huh? But you’re dressed like one of those nasty bikers you caught.” He reached for a clipboard, tapping a pen against his chin while his gaze lingered on Chris’s crotch. “Maybe you need someone with a little more horsepower to get you where you’re going. Sign here, Chris. Just a routine check on the campsite supplies. I need your autograph for the records.”
“Bullshit, Tom…” Chris called him out, a smirk playing on his lips. “If you want my autograph, just ask for it. This was about the performance at The Whaler, and Christopher did not want to disappoint a fan.
He took the clipboard, but he didn’t just write his usual scribble — he designed it on the spot. Claiming a corner of the empty sheet, he carved a bold diagonal ‘S’ and anchored it with a thin, precise circle. Using the ‘S’ as a spine, he added the rest in a fluid, curly script: Chri tucked inside the large circle on the left, and topher nestled into the right.
A reflex of his technical training, Chris took a beat to admire the symmetry of the mark before handing the pen back. It was a deliberate piece of branding rather than a name — a total departure from his standard John Hancock.
Is there anything else I can do with you… Umm?… for you, Tommy?”
Tom flexed his eyebrows and smirked. “Damn, is it that obvious? Shit, I heard you give great head. How about we find a quiet spot?”
“Excuse me? Heard what from whom?”
“Five horny Boy Scouts I met down at kilometer marker thirteen. I saw your leathered ass waddling away from them with Jelmer. Was it fun?”
“I will neither confirm nor deny that. But those Scouts got a few new merit badges,” Chris sniggered. He watched as Officer Tom checked his mirrors and whipped out his truncheon.
The rumors had not been unfounded. Tommy had a foot-long brown schlong, and it was even thicker than Master Cody’s back in Amsterdam. Twelve by eight, at least. Chris was good at guesstimating measurements, but this elegant black tree trunk defied gravity.
Christopher reached inside the cop car and laid the monster across his lower arm. It was wider than his wrist, for God’s sake! He wanted it — he badly wanted to play with that thing — but he couldn’t. Not here, in the middle of the back street.
“May I get your autograph, please?” Officer Tom asked, his tone turning mock-shy.
Chris laughed hard. “Sure thing, officer. May I play with your cock?” he asked brutally.
“Sure, why the fuck not, boy? As long as you don’t throw out your back lifting that heavy equipment,” Tom joked. “I’m at the toilets at the dune crossing near kilometer marker thirteen around seven… I bet you’ve heard of it, boy! Those horny Scouts did! If you want, you can write them a song about this big black meat.”
Officer Tom looked quickly around to see if they were alone before reaching out for Chris. The backstreet was usually bustling with tourists, but there were none to be seen. Tom grabbed Chris by the lapel of his new leather jacket and hauled him halfway into the car. He didn’t waste time on pleasantries; he pulled Chris into a deep, bruising kiss and then shoved the boy’s head down toward that heavy black meat. Chris took him in all at once, the taste of sweat and pre-cum hitting his tongue as the thick scent of dark musk filled his senses.
Tommy held firm, bobbing Chris’s head up and down the length of his shaft while Chris hung through the open police car window, his boots barely touching the dirt. Tom growled, a low, guttural sound of pure satisfaction. He pulled back just as quickly, readjusting himself as he looked Chris in the eye.
“If you want more of this, then see you around seven, boy. Don’t be late! Ha… Better lube up and clear your throat,” he said, laughing hard as he shifted the Jeep into gear. He drove away, satisfied he’d found yet another Islander to play with — and a pint-sized celebrity at that. Chris ducked back into the communal bike shed at the foot of the dune and scribbled a hasty note in his Diary.
• May 14th — 3:12 PM.
I still can’t fucking believe my eyes. Man, Tommy is absolutely humongous, and the black hunk actually wants to play with me. Sure, Officer Thomas is almost old enough to be my father, but even my brothers wouldn’t believe me if I told them. Not that ‘the runt’ would spill a word to them. Let them eat pussy. I do prefer dick!
Shit, I can’t believe my luck. Amsterdam was a treat, but swallowing that black truncheon is going to be something else entirely. If Master Cody taught me anything, it’s that I’m a total size queen. The bigger the better!
Fuck, I can’t wait to tell Jelly-Belly... or maybe I’ll just let him wonder why I’m walking with a limp. My first BBC, and the man carrying that weapon ain’t half bad either... Hell, no! He’s a goddamn king. Breathe, Chris, Breathe!
Christopher was still grinning from ear to ear as he walked up the steep path to the bunker complex, the adrenaline from Tom’s ‘check-up’ still humming in his veins. But his stomach dropped the moment he surveyed the site. At first glance, it looked as if bombs had hit the dune terraces all over again; a cluster of angry tourists was already mid-argument with several volunteers. While the guys were in Amsterdam, the eager crew had used motorized wheelbarrows to haul furniture through the dunes, pulverizing the ancient brick walkway to town into an impassable sand-trap.
Chris let out a long sigh and stepped into the fray, his voice calm but carrying the weight of his newfound authority. He dispatched the volunteers to his lodgings and turned his charm on the distressed tourists. Just as he was calming the crowd, Great Uncle Ben arrived, his jaw dropping at the carnage of the ruined shortcut.
“What the hell happened here?” Ben shouted over the noise.
Chris smiled warmly, already spinning the disaster into a win. “Don’t ask me, uncle, I just got back. But look at the bright side — we needed to close this path to install the underground rainwater tanks anyway. It’s just an early start.”
He pointed the tourists toward a scenic detour, effectively clearing the site in minutes. With the crisis managed, Chris’s dirty mind immediately drifted back to kilometer marker thirteen. He had a much larger ‘project’ to undertake at seven o’clock. He had never been with a black man before, but he wasn’t about to let the opportunity pass him by.
He directed the volunteers to unload the van at Ben’s barn while he and a small crew salvaged the old bricks and stacked them neatly. “Who needs a gym when you’ve got work like this to do?” he considered. The chilling memory of leaving Jelmer was an almost-forgotten thought.
Chris set up some temporary fencing and hung detour signs to block access to the worksite, creating a corridor for the concrete trucks along the edge of the campgrounds. He spent the rest of the afternoon dumping the waste the volunteers had created into containers to be carted off, his body working on autopilot. At the same time, his mind stayed fixed on the sunset. He could not believe the thirty-eight-year-old black hunk wanted him.
After a light snack and a rushed shower, he raced his bicycle toward the eastern end of the Island. He wasn’t sure if he would find exactly what he was looking for, but looking couldn’t hurt, could it? The birds chirped as a soft wind brushed his skin while he pedaled along the winding coastal crushed-shell paths.
A boxy, 1980s black Land Rover was parked near the dune crossing at 6:54 PM. The brick toilet block was bathed in the golden light of the slowly setting sun, yet a chill rose on Christopher’s neck. He straightened his white cotton crew jacket and pulled the brim of his white NY baseball cap lower over his face. The new black leather jeans with the thru-zip looked lethal over his white Nikes — not a bad look for a nineteen-year-old looking for a good time.
Suddenly feeling nervous as heck, Chris carefully opened the door to the men’s side of the gritty toilet block. He stepped inside, not knowing what to expect. The place felt deserted, which creeped him out even more. Acting as if he had business to attend to, he walked over to the urinals to take a quick leak.
The weasel was barely drained when he heard a pair of heavy brown army boots tap the floor. The echoing sound came from one of the toilet stalls — the same one he and Jelmer had occupied. Those horny Scouts watched them at it through the roughly cut gloryholes. Chris opened the door to the stall next to it and found a lazy black snake hanging through the partition. It had a wide silicone collar around its base and was slowly oozing in anticipation.
“Don’t be shy, little fellow… Aww, don’t cry. Chris will make it all better,” joked Christopher as he carefully lifted the droopy extreme schlong.
“Stop playing with your food, boy! Eat it!” Said a familiar deep Dutch-Caribbean voice with a grin.
Even flaccid, Tommy’s tool was a sight to behold. The eager droplets of pre-cum glistening at the tip told Chris everything he needed to know — the Sergeant was hungry for the boy. Chris’s hands moved tentatively along the heavy, velvet length, his thumb picking up the beads of lubricant to slick the dark, flared head and the thick column of the neck.
If someone had handled Chris’s own nine-inch reach like that, he would have been rock-hard in an instant, but Tom’s ‘big brother’ remained remarkably flexible. Even as the twink began using both hands to milk the monster, the girth simply grew longer and heavier with every stroke.
After worshipping the weight for a long while, jacking the soft skin until it pulsed, Chris’s mouth inched forward. He could smell the musk of the glistening treat; he could feel the heat radiating from the massive, oversized ebony stick. The light brown head was slightly narrower than the dark, eight-inch girth, but the veins popping along the shaft intrigued the twink — they lay just below the surface, pumping with a life of their own. Chris had never imagined he would be lucky enough to handle a foot-long, mahogany sequoia like this.
But stroking it wasn’t enough. Christopher needed to taste it. He wanted to serve that masterful black truncheon and work it until those silicone-bound, hairless coconuts finally exploded. “Heck, if Tom would let him, he would —” But no, he couldn’t let the thought finish. Not yet. The first task was a proper, eye-watering lube job. Otherwise, those twelve inches were never going to fit.
Slowly, Chris lifted the flexible fire hose and swiped a quivering tongue from the base to the frenulum. Tom surged forward, pushing hard against the partition wall, and accidentally trapped his heavy nuts behind the rough-cut wood. The off-duty cop let out a sharp, muffled yell of pain.
Chris pulled back and whispered, “Careful there, bud. Don’t crush those black bonbons just yet. I’m going to need to bring a hole saw and some sandpaper to soften these jagged edges. Can’t have the tourists getting splinters in their beautiful cocks. Mm-hmm... Fuck, that’s a big one… Oh… Yeah… Glug… Mmm… Nice… Gak…”
“Yeah… gag on that big beautiful dick… Fuck yeah, eat it, boy! Ooh shit, man,” Tom moaned softly. “You like that dick?”
“What’s not to like?” Chris replied, his voice thick. “There’s just a lot of it. I can hardly fit my mouth over the head.”
“Less talk, more action! Take me deeper… I want to feel it in your throat, boy. Swallow me down.”
The command hit differently than it had with Master Cody in Amsterdam. This sounded less like a direct order and more like a horny request. As a glutton for the gargantuan, Christopher knew exactly how to obey. The schlong’s flexibility frankly made it easy.
He spat a thick glob onto the shaft, stroked the drool over the dark skin, and went for the full-course meal. He didn’t need a four-count this time; he took the flexible brown pole down in one fluid, desperate go. He pushed his tongue out past his bottom lip and forced himself deeper, ignoring the protest of his own muscles.
As solid as the Island was anchored to the North Sea bed, the floor of the toilet block began to sway. He was deep-throating an ebony monster, the glans actually pushing past his esophagus. Tommy screamed as half his dick lodged itself down the pipe.
“Fucking hell… You’re good… Damn, boy! Suck me,” Tom groaned wildly.
As soon as Chris came up for air, the Sergeant lost his edge, shooting short, heavy salvos of spunk straight into the twink’s throat. Chris had tasted several men over the last few weeks, but none of them hit like Tom. He wanted more. While he kept the cum-pump deep in his mouth, he rummaged in his leather pants.
He pulled a condom from his wallet, and before Tom could question the pause, the through-zip on Chris’s leathers grissed open. The next thing the Sergeant knew, his rubbered glans was disappearing into a tight, leather-clad fuck-chute. Chris had to shove a fist into his own mouth to keep from screaming, but he needed to feel something this massive stretching him out and drilling him deep.
“Dang, boy… are you… Are you really going to? Damn it… Fuck yeah… Ride that huge black cock, boy!” Tommy screamed as he felt Chris’s ass pressing firmly against the partition, engulfing his length.
It took Chris a long time to adjust to the extreme scale of the cock, but in the end, the majority of Tommy’s length was buried deep in Christopher’s hole. Pressing his ass back against the cubicle wall, he moaned, “Fuck me, Sir… take me deeply… I want to feel you split me in two with that big cock… Fuck me. But do it slowly.”
Tom pumped the young cunt a few times, testing the resistance and listening for any sounds of distress. But all he heard was Christopher egging him on. “Go harder… take me deeper!”
Tom slid out with a wet slap and whispered, “Shit, man, I hadn’t expected this. Come into my stall and ride me, cowboy. Let’s break this rubber! Get your hot ass over here, boy!”
It wasn’t a command either; it was a lustful invitation. Tom unlocked his cubicle door, and a moment later, Chris slipped inside.
Christopher’s eyes lit up as he finally saw the tall, black hunk in the flesh. Tom had ditched his police uniform for black track pants and a vintage, scuffed brown leather jacket that matched his worn army boots. The sight of the man’s glistening, bare chest — dark, rippling muscle beneath the open leather — shot thrills of pure delight through the twink. He was about to get plugged by the biggest cock he had ever seen.
They collided instantly, kissing and grinding their dicks together in a desperate, sweaty leather tangle. Tom didn’t waste any more time on talk. He roughly bent Chris over the toilet, his big hands gripping the boy’s hips as he leaned down to lick his cunt. He tongue-fucked the boy’s eager asshole, his big lips and rough tongue prepping the heat for the heavy-duty demolition to come.
Chris got penetrated, probed, and prodded for fifteen agonizing minutes. The police Sergeant knew how to do a proper cavity search. And his mahogany truncheon reached places no other man had dared to explore.
This went on until Chris’s legs gave way. The heavy black dong slid out and landed — wet and slimy — on the man’s shoulder. The condom was filled to breaking point.
Tom removed the ‘evidence’ and watched it disappear down the toilet with a final, echoing flush. He lifted Chris off the floor and set him on the seat, squatting down in front of the pint-sized celebrity. They stayed like that, kissing and holding each other for a long time, their heartbeats gradually slowing in the cool air of the stall.
They were still breathing heavy, their palms stroking each other’s leather jackets, when Tom finally broke the silence. “Man, how was that for you, fucker?” he asked, his voice thick with a heavy Caribbean accent.
“Well… you’re nasty… properly rough,” Chris panted hotly. “I felt completely dominated by a strong top like you, Thomas. And your cock is fucking amazing. I love it! I’ll have to tell my boyfriend all about it tonight.”
Tom’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, you have a boyfriend?”
“Well, sort of… Jelmer declared his love for me, and I’ve decided to try stuff out. We have an open relationship — mostly. He also loves to be dominated a bit,” Chris said with a sigh, the memory of their rough departure earlier that day finally catching up to him.
“How was this for you, Chris? Can I drop you off at his place?” Tom asked, his tone shifting back toward something more protective.
“It was amazing, Tom… and I wouldn’t mind waking up next to your ebony goodness sometime. But no thanks,” Chris smirked, adjusting his cap. “I think I need to let your load sink in while I ride back West. And don’t worry, ‘Officer Thomas,’ your secret is safe with me.”
A flicker of relief edged onto Tommy’s face. Chris saw it clearly. He knew Tom’s job would be on the line if the Islanders ever found out he was fucking around with tourists — celebrity or not.
• May 14th — Gloryhole encounter with a Cop.
I’m glad the sun had set, and no one walked in on us. Fuck, I blew a cop in a public toilet block. And no, not his whistle — his foot-long ebony schlong. Pfff. I knew he was well-endowed, but that thing was wider, and almost longer, than my forearm.
Okay, so far I’ve screwed around with second cousins, pervy bikers, and leather masters. However, none of them can touch the heat this Caribbean dude was swinging. My ass is still throbbing.
I guess I have to tell Jelmer about it, but that’ll have to wait. I shouldn’t keep this a secret from him; it wouldn’t be fair. The man is in love with me, even though our first attempt at living together shattered like a… Oh well, it broke. He needed his space, I guess.
It was almost ten o’clock by the time Chris hauled himself up to his cabin on top of the Harbor View campground dune. He washed quickly in the tiny kitchen sink and dropped off into a satisfied, heavy sleep, still dressed in the new leather jeans. Tomorrow, the real work would start: rebuilding the first twelve bunker cabins — and his relationship with Jelmer.
• Continued in chapter 8 •
Thank you for reading this story.
Please give it a 👍 Like or a Comment if you are inclined to do so.
And if your hands are not too dirty from all the spilled cum! 😋
© StrykerJ - February 2026
