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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 9
• A change of pace.
During his fourth week on site, the Monday sun beat down with a relentless heat. However, Christopher barely felt it over the bone-shaking judder of the hammer drill. His second cousin, Jessie, found him atop the flat roofs, a solitary figure dwarfed by the U-shaped concrete skeletons that lined the dune overlooking the main town. He was boring holes in the already-leaky roofs.
The locals insisted on calling these structures ‘bunkers,’ though Chris knew better. In some places, the eighty-year-old concrete barrack roofs were barely two inches thick, a fragile shell that seemed to groan under their own weight. It was a miracle the former officers’ barracks hadn’t succumbed to the elements decades ago.
For Chris, this wasn’t just a holiday job; it was the physical manifestation of a senior high school year spent hunched over blueprints and structural load calculations. He knew every weakness of these ruins: the thick, stubborn back walls anchored into the sand versus the spindly, precarious sides that threatened to buckle.
His plan was simple — extra hidden internal support columns to take the strain and a steeper roof pitch to finally win the war against the elements. It was grueling, back-breaking labor that left his muscles screaming. Though Chris’s mind needed this to drown out the restless static in his own head.
Jelmer’s younger brother, Jessie, greeted Chris. Covered in fine gray dust from head to toe, Chris looked less like a college student on a working vacation and more like a man trying to bury himself in manual labor. He didn’t even greet his second cousin as he climbed onto the roof with him.
Indignantly, Jessie gasped, “Dude! Really?” He squinted up through the grit. “I’m not mad at you, Cuz — honestly, Jelmer had it coming. But what the hell are you doing up here, Chris?”
“Oh, hey, Jessie. How are you? Just drilling some holes to —” Chris started to explain, but Jessie cut him off with a smirk.
“Yeah, we all know drilling holes is your specialty.”
“Ha — naughty boy!” Chris shot back, wiped sweat from his forehead with a dusty forearm. “I hear you’ve been drilling a few holes of your own lately. How’s Little Peter?” That effectively shut Jelmer’s sneaky younger brother up, his face reddening instantly.
“We’re doing fine,” Jessie mumbled after a moment. “I told Gran we’re a thing. Pastor Simons wasn’t too happy about it, though.”
“Ah. The Reverend needs to learn that there’s no stopping young love — or young heat,” Chris remarked.
“True. It’s been fun, but Peet isn’t old enough for the real thing. So we are taking it slow until his birthday. But seriously... have you talked to Jelmer yet, Chris?”
“Not planning to,” Chris said, his voice tightening as he turned back to the drill. “I’ll let him come to me. I haven’t seen him around, and that suits me just fine.”
Chris set up concrete forms for the extra supports, using the holes he’d bored through the roof to pour the mix directly into the molds. The volunteers pitched in to dig out the back walls and install a French drain system, but after a week of hard graft, Jelmer still hadn’t shown his face.
With the new columns finally poured and curing, Chris was mentally wrecked. He desperately needed a break from being the guy in charge, wanting nothing more than to trade the dust and heartbreak for the ‘holiday’ portion of his working vacation.
By Tuesday morning, he could barely drag himself out of bed, his mind a static mess of construction blueprints and unanswered questions. Remembering Aunt Dianna’s advice to enjoy himself, he called the mainland office to volunteer for the ferry crew. They snapped him up immediately for a three-day tour starting Friday.
It was the perfect pivot — swapping the heavy stress of the build site for three glorious days of sun, salt air, and music. By noon on Thursday, he gave the builders the afternoon off and thanked the volunteers for their hard work. Chris officially closed the site. He was ready to be a ‘free agent’ on the open water.
• Dear Diary: May 19th, Catching up.
Sorry, I’ve been MIA lately. No excuses — the Jelmer situation and the work just had me stuck. My last entry was nasty enough, but the truth is, I’m still blaming myself for the break-up. Or are we ‘still cool’? Hope so. I do like Jelly-Belly, and Dicky is definitely missing him. I hope he figures his shit out soon.
I should probably stop chasing every tail on the Island and give my brain time to process. But damn, sex with guys is just so much easier than courting girls. Wish I’d known that ages ago — I might have proven the homophobes at home right, just to shut them up. Ha... though I’d probably be homeless in a gutter if I had. Not sure how Dad would react if he knew I liked guys more than girls. A few days away on the ferry is exactly what I need.
On Friday, Chris hit the car deck on the mid-morning ferry with the restless energy of a man looking for trouble. After signing in for his weekend tour — which included a strategic overnight stay at the mainland crew hotel — he stowed his gear and his guitar in the galley behind the saloon. He pulled on the white crew jacket and pinned his Islander’s badge to his lapel, finishing the look with the silly sailors’ cap Uncle Mathias had given him. He didn’t know why, but it completed his look. On anyone else, it looked like a carnival costume; on Chris’s fit frame, it looked like a challenge. He was ready to be in charge.
Great Uncle Mathias, the second mate, gave Chris a knowing look.
“Can you help with the gangway passenger check-ins, please? Willem is our new trainee deckhand from the nautical school. But... well, take care of that dude for me, Chris. He’s already looking green behind the gills.”
Chris smirked, adjusting his cap. “Sure thing, Uncle Matt, Sir. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
Willem, the twenty-one-year-old nautical student, looked the part in his crisp officer’s whites and pleated black pants, but he was clearly drowning in the chaos. His manicured hands shook as he fumbled with tickets, his ‘nine-to-five’ demeanor crumbling under the pressure of the boarding swarm. Willem didn’t have a shred of Chris’s natural authority. He could settle a rowdy group with a single look, but Willem just looked like he wanted to hide.
“Stick with me, dude. Just watch how I do it,” Chris told the lanky intern, his voice dropping into a firm, commanding register. While Willem froze when a child vanished in the crowd, Chris sliced through the swarm like a blade, resolving the panic before it could start. He leaned into Willem’s space, sensing the slim trainee’s relief — and his submission.
“Chin up, chest out, Will. You have to be in control here, or they’ll walk right over you.”
By the time the engines roared to life and the lines were cast off, Willem looked thoroughly frazzled. He was no people-person. Christopher just grinned broadly as the ship pulled away. They reported the passenger numbers to the first mate, and Willem was sent to the lowest saloon — an area currently closed to passengers — to scrub tables by himself. What could go wrong?
Mathias asked Chris to report to the main saloon to help behind the bar. The two exchanged quizzical looks as they watched Willem trudge down the crew stairwell, clearly dragging his feet.
After twenty minutes, Willem had still not returned, so the steward asked Chris to check up on the trainee deckhand. He found the twenty-one-year-old polishing something other than the tables in the small lower saloon. He was balls-deep inside an older German skank — she was almost old enough to be his mother.
Chris knew the type; he’d seen the German FKK naturists frolic nude on campgrounds and beaches. This oversexed thirty-year-old apparently hadn’t had her ‘fill’ on the Island, so she’d seduced Willem. He was going at it hard and fast in the dark.
She groaned in German, “Fick mich… Schieb deinen Schwanz in meine Fotze… Oh mein Gott… ja!” The orgasmic woman screamed as Willem stuffed his dick rudely and unprofessionally into her slutty cunt.
“Do you like my big cock? Take that big fat dick all the way. I’ll rip you open, you dirty bitch,” groaned Willem indignantly. The man was totally gone — oblivious to his duties and professional dignity.
Chris watched the two from the shadows of the disused, darkened lounge. Willem put his back into it as he screwed the dirty woman silly. Chris let the heat of their exertion fill the room — and his bulging pants — before he finally broke the spell by flicking on the lights.
The smirking woman quickly scurried away, leaving Willem exposed with his pants around his ankles, blushing like mad. His hands tried to cover a small, bullet-sized torpedo.
“Just for future reference, Will — THIS IS A BIG COCK! Your five inches just don’t cut it,” Christopher said, humiliatingly. He yanked his stiff prick from his black jeans, wiggled the eight-and-a-half-inch slab in Willem’s direction, and quickly stabled the horse again.
“It’s six inches,” Willem croaked indignantly. “And get that monster thing away from me! I’m not gay!”
“Hmm? Really? You don’t have to be gay to look at another man. But those five inches hardly qualify as ‘big,’ Willem. Anyway, go beat that little thing down in the toilet and report to the main saloon. Sailors really don’t have a bitch in every port. If that’s why you signed on, then you’re not sailor material, dude.”
Willem pulled up his pants and almost ran to the toilets in shame. Chris cleaned the mess the two had left and went to wash his hands. The German woman had squirted all over the table and floor, despite ‘Mister Tiny.’
Willem still hadn’t moved upstairs to the main saloon. He was frantically trying to bust a nut at the urinals but got nowhere fast.
Chris walked up and stood next to Willem, smirking nastily at the horny man. He pulled his dong free and started to piss like a racehorse. The water clattered in the bowl as he watched Willem wilt.
Willem grabbed Chris’s hand and pressed it against his prick. “You may need to give me a hand, Chris,” he suggested. Turning to Chris’s side and hoping for a quick handjob.
“No, idiot! We’d be flung overboard if they found out, man!” Chris said as he pulled his hand back. “It’s not that I don’t like to help you out, but I value my job here more!”
Willem’s face twisted into a jagged, triumphant grin. “See? I knew it! You’re a goddamn homo — a dirty faggot!”
The slur hung in the air of the toilets, but Chris didn’t flinch. He’d heard the word a thousand times at home from his brothers and sister. But the ‘dirty’ part? That stung.
Chris’s eyes went cold. In one fluid, practiced motion, he lunged. He moved behind Willem, pinning his face rudely to the steel hull. Bending him forward.
“Faggot, you say? Sure, Will. If you say so…” Chris hissed into his ear, his voice terrifyingly calm, “… But dirty? I’ve got the cleanest ass on this ship.”
Chris suddenly yanked Willem’s pants down and drove a wet finger deep into his hairy hole. While he pumped the deckhand’s p-spot, Willem shot his pent-up nut within seconds. The heavy squirts clattered in the bowl, and his eyes rolled up in utter bliss.
“You know what, Willem? It’s true, I am gay.” It felt good admitting his own feelings. However, he wasn’t done humiliating the ‘straight’ deckhand for the nasty slur. “But at least I wash myself. You should try it sometime.” He yanked the finger out, and Will’s legs gave way. He toppled over into his own puddle of spilled juice. Chris washed his hands and left the dazzled intern to clean his mess, shouting, “Scrub the toilets while you’re at it!”
Neither the steward nor any of the crew saw the trainee deckhand from the nautical school for the rest of the trip. Chris had done his duties, and he parked himself with Wessel’s guitar on top of one of the empty booth seats in the main saloon, his silly Navy cap at a jaunty angle as he began toggling the strings. Drumming, tapping, and strumming it like a one-man band, earning him a nice sum of money for his efforts.
Willem — with an uncommon grin on his face — showed up to help disembark the passengers at the mainland terminal.
“Did you enjoy that, Will?” asked Chris.
“It wasn’t what I expected.”
“What? The sneaky sex, the finger up your butt, or the work on the ferry?”
“Ha — none of it,” gasped Willem. “But — I’ve never cum that hard in my life! Thanks, man!”
After that first tour, Christopher jumped in wherever the schedule called him, moving with an abundance of energy. He finally ended his Friday run at the mainland crew hotel. His body was tired and his throat sore, but he had never felt this alive. The shift from the dusty building site to the bustle of the ferry was exactly the change of pace he’d needed to stop the mental stadium riot.
Even his newfound fame on the Island had earned him a serious payday. An older Islander couple, beaming with local pride, had tucked a bank check into Christopher’s jeans back pocket as they disembarked. It was a thousand euros for the ‘Islander Youth Fund.’ It felt like a trophy against his thigh.
Saturday started bloody early, but Chris didn’t mind — the rising sun and salt air soothed his soul. By six AM, he was on the dock directing traffic. His white crew bomber and high-vis vest contrasted sharply with the black tank top and rugged, matte-black leather pants. They were a bold Amsterdam find, kinky but practical enough to pass for an official uniform. He felt ‘untouchable,’ radiating a self-assured energy he hadn’t possessed a month ago.
After a quick coffee, he reported to the aft deck of the fast catamaran. The passenger line was deep, and Chris worked the gangway with practiced ease, swinging heavy suitcases into the stowage compartments. He was halfway through the line when he clocked them — five rowdy Irish musicians. Tatted and weary, they looked more like burly builders than fiddlers. A ‘type’ Chris knew all too well.
His eyes lingered on the leader, a buff ginger in his late thirties with a Viking beard and piercing green eyes. The man wore double-zipped suede carpenter pants and a leather vest that immediately piqued Chris’s interest. The attraction was mutual. As the man handed over his bag, his gaze took a slow, appreciative detour from Chris’s jacket down to the heavy bulge straining against the matte leather. In the morning sun, the outline was impossible to ignore.
“Nice kit, young fella,” the ginger rumbled, his hand brushing Chris’s side in a bold, knowing stroke. “Grand bit of kit on ye, lad. You’re ready for more than a ferry trip, I’d say. You’re a player, aren’t ye? I can tell by the cut of ye.”
Chris smirked, his skin prickling as the other four chuckled. Their shared ‘it takes one to know one’ grins were unmistakable. One of the younger men gave a low whistle, eyes locked on how the leather hugged Chris’s frame as he reached for the next suitcase. “Better watch out, Liam,” another teased, “— that zip looks like it leads to all kinds of trouble.”
“Instruments under the seats, gents,” Chris managed, trying to maintain his professional mask. At the same time, his cock throbbed against the through-zip. “Keep ’em safe from the heavy luggage.”
The ginger gave him a final, lingering wink before disappearing into the cabin. ‘They found me out already,’ Chris thought, a surge of adrenaline hitting him harder than the caffeine. It wasn’t every morning you got clocked by a five-man rhythm section before breakfast. Even though there was something nasty about these guys.
Chris reported the passenger manifest in the wheelhouse, greeting the Captain — his father’s old friend.
“Hey, Chris! Soan, I’m glad you decided to help out again!” he said warmly. “We all enjoyed your performance at The Whaler. Man, you sang beautifully with Wessel!” Chris smirked at the heartfelt praise, feeling the weight of the ‘good island boy’ persona he was currently wearing.
After helping release the moorings, the water-jets roared to life at 8:22 AM with a predatory whine. The catamaran leveled out, its hulls rising on a cushion of froth as it raced out of the mainland harbor. Once the crossing was underway, Chris grabbed his breakfast and sat in the same row as the five Irishmen, who were busy tuning their gear. Through thick grins and thicker accents, they explained that Wessel had headhunted them for an impromptu festival on the Island.
Between bites of his sandwich, they asked if he played. When a wiry fellow with a mischievous, dirty glint in his eye handed Chris a beat-up acoustic, the group laughed in his face as he laid the instrument across his lap. It looked silly, but they shut up fast when his fingers hit the strings. Chris hammered out a traditional Irish jig with such percussive intensity that it sounded like a full band was shredding in the cabin.
The six of them jammed in a tight, rhythmic heat, giving the lucky passengers a world-class show for the price of a ferry ticket. Chris was chuffed to his core, feeling completely in his element trading riffs with the rowdy crew. But his bladder signaled a sharp protest; the morning coffee had gone right through him. He needed to relieve the pressure before they hit the Island dock.
Chris handed back the guitar and headed for the toilets just beyond the aft bulkhead. As he stood at the urinal, he wasn’t alone for long. Two Irishmen followed him in, crowding the boy in the tight space. Liam — the one in the double-zipped carpenter pants — stood right next to him and whipped his ‘gear’ out. A flaming red bush surrounded the thick, hardened shaft.
The nineteen-year-old tried to break free from the burly man, but his younger companion held him tightly. Christopher was forced to his knees. He had no intention of letting these men abuse him, but their grip was merciless. Thinking they’d dock soon, Chris opened up and took the thick head poking through that wild, coarse thicket of copper wire. There was definitely something about these two that rubbed Chris the wrong way, though.
“Open ye fucking gob, and Suck it!” shouted the guy, yanking Christopher’s arm up his back and pushing his face over the O’tool. “Stuff his throat, he’s gagging for it.”
“No, man! I won’t. You’d be in so much trouble.” Chris tried to push away. But this made the two only more aggressive.
“Yeah, swallow that dick. Blow that tin whistle. Put that dick in ye mouth, and suck that Irish cock hard! Lick that dick. Take it all, ye plucked my strings, now SUCK IT ALL!”
“Shit, he’s doing it! I knew he was queer as fuck!” called the younger musician. He tried to stuff his hand down the back of Chris’s leather jeans, but the gap was too tight. And the twink certainly wouldn’t make it easy on the fiddler.
“Stop it! Fuck, guys! If you had just asked, I would probably have agreed to this. You don’t have to be this rude about it!” moaned Chris, annoyed, as he sucked the cock deep down again — making him cum hard.
The other man tried to shove Chris around, demanding his turn on the cum-dump, but the universe had other plans. Three things hit at once: the catamaran heeled hard around a sandbank, the Captain’s voice boomed over the tannoy announcing their arrival, and a passenger rattled the locked toilet door. The tumbling assailant lost his footing, giving Chris the opening he needed to bolt.
He straightened his jacket and adjusted his silly sailor’s cap, stepping onto the aft deck just as the water-jets cut to a low hum. He worked the lines and threw open the aft passenger doors, masking his thudding heart with professional calm. As the five Irishmen disembarked, the older, rougher one leaned in, his breath hot against Chris’s ear. “We’d love to ‘play’ some more, lad. Come find us.” Chris faked a smile, wishing them luck while his skin crawled with a mix of adrenaline and relief.
By Saturday night, the drama shifted to the crew hotel. Chris was sharing a room with Willem, but the intern’s ‘failed adventures’ had soured his mood. Thinking he could reclaim some dominance, the straight intern, Willem, tried to viciously bone Chris without asking. He was flabbergasted when Chris shut him down with a snarl.
“I said we’d talk about the ferry, nothing more, nothing less. That you think with your dick-head isn’t my problem, dude,” Chris snapped. “We have to be back on board in nine hours. So I only have time to eat before I get to bed anyway. See you tomorrow!”
“What the fuck… You said —” Willem started angrily.
Willem was gone by morning, clearly unable to hack the work — or the man in charge. Sunday was a blur of running between ferries, ending with Chris half-naked on the upper deck of the car ferry, baking in the sun, and belting out songs for the crew and seagulls alike. Even Uncle Mathias seemed resigned to the show. It had its perks; Chris walked away with a heavy share of the salary once Willem’s tour ended.
Monday was for the bunkers. He spent the day masking off walls and applying bold, cheerful blocks of color to the whitewashed interior. It was the first cabin finished, and with the modern acoustic panels and curtains, the new result looked sharp. When Uncle Ben and Frida visited that afternoon, they were floored by the progress. It only needed some touch-ups. Still looking bare without the furniture and IKEA kitchen block, it became the vision for the volunteers to follow in the other barracks.
“I love it when a plan comes together. Work smart, not hard,” Chris joked, wiping a smudge of paint from his thumb.
“And you’re under budget,” Ben added with a nod, “… Jelmer told me so.”
The name hit Chris like a physical blow. It wasn’t the budget that shocked him — it was the first time that he’d completely forgotten his supposed lover even existed.
“Why don’t you dine with us?” suggested Great Aunt Frieda, “… I think Jelmer is coming too. You guys need to talk.”
Monday dinner with Ben and Frida was interrupted when Jelmer marched into the kitchen with a beautiful, brown-haired girl on his arm. The woman looked bewildered, her high-heeled stilettos clicking on the wooden floor as she approached the table. Ever the gentleman, Chris stood and offered the heavily made-up ‘Barbie doll’ a seat.
“Gran, this is Christine. She’s my girlfriend, from Paris,” Jelmer announced, pointedly ignoring Chris. While the family chuckled at the obvious stunt, Chris didn’t flinch. He greeted the girl in flawless, sophisticated French, leaving Jelmer — who could barely manage basic English — looking like a total amateur.
“Bonsoir, mademoiselle Christine,” said Christopher softly. He spoke his languages, that much was sure. He looked at Jelmer and muttered to the family, “… It’s his choice to make a fool of himself.” The facade crumbled instantly; Jelmer broke down in tears, and Great Uncle Ben had to quietly usher the confused ‘girlfriend’ out the door.
After an awkward dinner, Jessie suggested taking their dirt bikes to the track to let off some ‘steam.’ Chris knew the play, but postponed the trip to the former garbage dump and the cross-track until the next day. As Chris finally closed the patio doors of the command bunker, Jelmer dropped sobbing around his neck. Chris just smiled at the fool and kissed him deeply.
Jelly-Belly showed he was ready to resume where they had left off last week. He had already unbuttoned his belt and was about to take off his shirt when Chris stopped him.
“Not tonight, love. If I’m going to race you and Jes, I need my beauty sleep. Let’s take things slow — I think we rushed into this. Dress up in your cool biker gear and see what load we need to dump in which hole tomorrow.” He winked, his tone leaving no room for argument. He wasn’t just a ‘player’ anymore; he was a man who knew his worth, and Jelmer was going to have to work a lot harder to get back into those leather pants.
• Continued in chapter 10 •
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© StrykerJ - March 2026
