Terry – A skinhead love story

A boy remembers the troubled skinhead friend who took his cherry.

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Terry – A skinhead love story

Me and Terry were alone in an abandoned factory. It was somewhere we hung out sometimes.

“We should put all those cunts on a boat and send them back here they came from,” Terry said, repeating a line that he had said a thousand times before. He might not be smart or creative, but he was nothing if not persistent.

“Uh huh,” I murmured, giving him the minimum acknowledgement necessary without in the least way encouraging him.

Over the past couple of years, his hatred of foreigners had grown. He was being drawn ever deeper into the darkness of white nationalist activism, and the further he went, the greater the intellectual distance between us. But I still loved him. I couldn’t help it.

I’d known Terry since I was five years old, and he was seven. We moved in next door, and he immediately took me under his protective wing. His father was a bully who was only too willing to use his fists on his own kids. From time to time, we’d hear the man shouting inside his house, and then a day or two later, Terry or one of his four siblings would appear with fresh bruises, or worse still, they wouldn’t be seen at all for days on end.

Terry always made excuses to the grown ups – he’d tripped, or fallen off a swing. He had a catalogue of excuses for the injuries he sported. But he still needed someone he could confide in, and that someone was me. In those days, Terry was still willing to show his vulnerable side, and I often commiserated with him about his injuries. On a couple of occasions, I even held him in my child-like way as he cried.


By the time I reached my teens, I realised that I was MUCH smarter than Terry. By the time I was fifteen, I had figured that that was not because I was a genius, but because he was dumb as a stump. I never used it against him. After all, I loved him like a brother.

When me and Terry were around the others, I played the role of racist bigot as much as I had to not embarrass Terry in front of his friends. I talked about “fucking coons” and “pakis taking our jobs” (even though I was too young to actually HAVE a job) but it was never really me. I was comfortable with the deception because I knew that wasn’t really who I was – I was just playing a role to fit in, and it wasn’t like I was inciting them to ever actually do anything – I was going with the flow of the conversation. But in private, when it was just me and Terry, I never spoke like that. Just as he felt at complete ease around me, I didn’t really feel the need to pretend around him. I might murmur or nod, just so he wasn’t talking to himself, but mostly, as now, if I didn’t fuel the fire, his racist rants dried up pretty quickly.


He stopped raving about foreigners and fell quiet for a few minutes. I noticed that he kept tugging at the side of his cock through track suit trousers. Eventually I gave him a pointed look.

“You alright there Tel?” I asked him.

He gave me a pained look.

“Nah, I’m fucking roasting for it. If I don’t get laid soon, my bollocks are gonna burst.”

I grinned at him amused at his predicament. We were in our sexual prime. He was almost nineteen, and hardly two days passed without him getting his end away with some local piece of tail.

“When did you last fuck?” I asked him.

“Last Saturday.”

I frowned.

“But that was…”

I counted the days in my head…

“That was nine days ago!”

I was amazed.

“Yeah I know. I’m busting for it…”

“Why don’t you just have a wank?” I offered.

He pulled his cock out of his pants. He was half hard. It was seven inches long, and thick. I’d seen it plenty of times before but it still impressed me. He slapped it from side to side against his thigh, and it looked like a white eel with a long ant-eater foreskin snout. I looked down at it and laughed.

“I’m not still a boy like you,” he said patronising but playful, “I can’t just wank myself off two times a day and call it done.”

“Four times a day,” I corrected.

“Four now! Fucking hell, you dirty little cunt. What are you, a fucking rabbit?!”

I grinned widely at his joke, proud at my horniness.



When I first met Terry, he was as gentle and vulnerable as any normal seven year old. But as Terry grew from a young child, he toughened up. He didn’t need comforting as much, and by the age of eleven he never cried any more.

Then three things happened that shaped him forever. The first was when his father lost his job. It was not the man’s fault – the company was downsizing as it transferred manufacturing to cheaper plants overseas. The second was more gradual. More and more foreign people started moving into our street. We lived in a working class neighbourhood in London, and the housing was the last hope for poor downwardly-mobile whites, and the first stop for blacks, Asians, and Eastern Europeans on the way up. The third thing was when Terry discovered the skinheads.

At first it was just a short haircut. Then a green flight jacket and a pair of Doc Martin boots. He was twelve at the time and I thought that he looked pretty cool: dangerous. I asked my mum if I could get my hair cut short like his, and she turned me down flat. Every few months I asked again, until eventually, when I was fourteen, she gave in and I got my hair cut just like his; as short as possible without actually being completely bald.


Terry didn’t change overnight, but gradually he started dropping racist remarks into the conversation and talking more and more aggressively. He had been getting into fights at school for as long as I knew him, but now he was seeking fights with strangers, especially kids and ven adults with dark skin. Then he found a group of older skinheads in the neighbourhood and started hanging around with them, and that really started to push his ideology to the right.

We were close as ever. My emotional support when he was younger forged a deep bond between us, but being two years younger, I was like his quiet shadow, and I followed him around like a loyal puppy dog when he met his skinhead mates. I was the baby of the group at fourteen, and they teased me in a friendly way, careful not to overstep the mark in case they drew Terry’s anger and the savage violence that would accompany it.

I really just went along with Terry for the company, and although I was certainly not shy, I didn’t really voice a lot of opinions. That was just fine with me because I didn’t share their ideology or hatred of foreigners or the “Jewish overlords” that they constantly alluded to.


At sixteen I still had a slight baby roundness to my face, and although Terry and I were open about sex, I’d only had one girl friend, and I wasn’t with her any more.

I grabbed at the bulge in the front of my nylon joggers.

“We could have a wank now if you like?” I offered.

Terry taught me how to masturbate when I was twelve, and I can honestly say that it was one of the best events of my life. Once he showed me how to pull on my dick, the feeling was certainly extremely pleasant, and my first orgasm, along with its tiny squitter of cum felt incredible, but what I enjoyed about it the most, was the way that it brought us even closer together.

I’d seen his dick a few times when he took a piss or got changed, but those occasions had been utilitarian. Now, as he taught me, we were both naked, and he even put his hand on my dick for 30 seconds once it was hard, just to show me what to do. It was a level of intimacy, which, whilst unspoken, turned my big brother love towards him into something more.


Terry looked at me holding my bulge, and he pondered for a second. I sensed him considering the proposition, and always eager for the opportunity to masturbate, and doubly so with him, I pulled the front of my own underpants and trousers down. I grabbed the base of my dick, thrust my hips forwards and waggled my dick at him.

“C’moooon,” I enticed.

He laughed but declined.

“Nah Pete, that’s not enough. I need something more today. My bollocks feel like fucking rugby balls!”

He looked me in the eyes, holding the gaze far longer than was comfortable. I felt like prey being sized up by a lion, but he had never hurt me or even laid a finger on me, so I pushed away my discomfort with a swallow.

“What? What are you thinking of?” I asked him.

“Well, there is ONE way you could help me out…”

“What d’ya mean,” I asked, both excited and nervous.

“Turn around and bend over that rail,” Terry said, indicating a safety rail that surrounded a long silent piece of machinery.

I frowned, uncertain what he was asking.

“Go on, fucking turn around if you really wanna help.”

I turned hesitantly, pathetically clueless as to what his intentions were. As I looked at him over my shoulders, he grabbed the back of my pants and trousers and pulled them down by a foot, exposing my buttocks.

“Hey!” I protested, the instant I realised what he was planning.

I turned back towards him, and I saw that his dick was fully erect, nine inches, straining towards his stomach. His pale foreskin was fully retracted and his shiny purple helmet looked like the head of an arrow, eager to pierce its target.

“Turn around you little bitch,” he said, and slapped me hard across the face.

I stared at him with wide, shocked eyes, paralysed. He slapped me again hard, then grabbed my shoulder and turned me roughly back towards the rail. My pants were still down. I heard him spit, then the head of his rigid cock was at my hole.

“What are you doing Tel?” I asked, in spite of the obvious.

“Just shut up and lean forwards,” he snarled at me, his tone brooking no dissent.

“No Tel, don’t please!” I begged as I felt him start to push.

He said nothing but immediately started pushing with all his might. I panicked and screamed, tensing my hole with all my strength. Something about my scream must have pierced the cocoon of animal lust that seemed to have overtaken him, and he stopped trying to impale me so brutally.

“It’ll go easier if you relax,” he said, his voice concerned and almost tender, like the big brother I had always known.

His tone calmed me, and I lost the panicky edge of fear that I was about to be brutally raped. I tried to calm my breathing. I think he could hear the trembling in my breath, and he waited now, the head of his cock against my sphincter, for me to relax.

I’d never thought about being bummed before, but the idea of getting that close to Terry had a strange appeal. It turned me on.

Eventually I said, “Go on then, but take it slow.”

Terry held his cock in his right hand, and guided the head towards my ring piece, whilst he spread my bum cheeks with the other hand. I felt him against me again, but this time I forced myself to relax as he tried to enter me. I was scared and excited. Scared of the pain. Scared of what it meant that I was letting him do it to me.

I turned and looked over my shoulder, twisting my body as I did so, trying to watch what he was doing. He looked me in the eye. His expression was serious but I couldn’t tell if it was concentration, or because he was still in that weird head-space that had made him force me in the first place. I felt like he wasn’t really seeing me anymore.

He leaned forwards and with his hand, he pushed my cheek, firmly turning my head back to the front so that I was facing away from him. I was confused. When we wanked off together, he was perfectly comfortable with himself and with me. He didn’t mind me staring at his dick, and he would often comment upon my dick or the amount of my spunk as we wanked. Sometimes, when he would masturbate me, he went beyond the plain ordinary pumping motion, and instead he would tease me using techniques he’d seen in porn videos, bringing me close then stopping, repeating for what seemed like hours at the time. But now he didn’t even want me to look at him.

I stared straight ahead as he pushed his spit-lubed cock against my hole. In spite of the fact that I was trying to relax, it didn’t go in easy, but now that I was not fighting against him, Terry seemed willing to take it slow. I could feel my hole slowly stretching, becoming tighter the more it opened. Then it felt like it was near its limit, but Terry still wasn’t inside me. He continued pushing, and I winced involuntarily. He lifted my shirt, and with his right hand, he stroked the curve of my lower spine softly. I felt an emotional connection him.

“Just relax,” he cooed with tenderness I’d never heard in his voice before. In that moment, I felt a surge of hope that this persona might foreshadow the person that he might become. A kinder, gentler person not filled with hate and violence.

I took a deep breath and relaxed as much as I could, determined to let him enter me as a reward for his tenderness, in the hope that it would encourage him to call upon that kinder side more often. But my hope was not to be.

He pushed slowly but firmly, but try as I might, my hole would not open wide enough to admit his thick nine inch cock. He pushed patiently for maybe ten seconds before lust and frustration got the better of him, and he stopped being so considerate.

“Stop fighting me,” he snarled, and before I could respond to tell him I wasn’t, he grabbed my hips and brutally rammed his cock into me. I screamed at the pain, my voice higher pitched than I would have liked, before I quickly got myself under control.

Now that he was in, he immediately buried himself balls deep in me. There was a fierce burning sensation in my sphincter, and a not-entirely unpleasant feeling of fullness with his cock occupying every inch of my rectum. The feeling of being a part of him produced powerful emotions in me, but they were conflicted with my feelings of unhappiness at his disdain for my wellbeing. It was the first time in eleven years that his protective instinct had faltered, and I found it deeply unsettling.

Now that he was in, he paused for a few seconds, then he slowly started pumping. My hole was hurting like an open wound, and later I would discover that he had indeed torn the skin, but at the end of each inward stroke, there was also a strange feeling that I had never experienced before. Almost immediately, I felt like I was cumming. My cock wasn’t even hard and I started oozing: I could feel it accumulating in cool puddles in my underpants. It was like he was pumping it out of me.

I didn’t want to risk Terry’s anger by turning, but I wanted to see what was happening to me so I leaned lower against the handrail with my chest, then looked back between my legs. My cock looked so pathetic compared to his, but the puckered foreskin was sticky with juice. I was surprised to see that it was not clear juice but actual cum that was dribbling from me. I didn’t know it was possible to cum without being hard, but now I was finding out otherwise. It was a different kind of orgasm – what I later learned was called a prostate orgasm.  I wished I could see his dick going in and out of me.

Terry said nothing to me, but he started to increase his pace, thudding his cock into my damaged hole like he was punishing me for something. For letting him fuck me. I looked straight ahead now. He was pouring years of pent of rage and repressed sexuality into the fuck. He was holding my hips on both sides and smashing his groin against my upturned asshole. The concave curves of his groin matched the soft, muscular convex curves of my butt cheeks. I could feel his pubes brushing me. He started grunting, and his pace became frantic. He was reaming me so hard that I had to hold the handrail with both arms to avoid being knocked off my feet. Then he let out a monumental series of grunts, unlike anything I had ever heard him utter when ejaculating before. He finally slowed, giving a last half dozen powerful and deliberate thrusts. Then he stopped.

He remained in me, and stood, breathing heavily, but otherwise silent, for over a minute, holding my hips so that I couldn’t move away from him. So far as I could tell, his erection did not diminish in the slightest. He wasn’t a deep thinker, but if he had been, Terry might have pondered why he was still so hard, and why he had enjoyed fucking me so much. It was more than a power trip.

After a minute, he reached around and touched my cock. I was even harder than he was.

“You queer cunt, you’re hard,” he said with contempt.

He was instinctively trying to defer his own sexual confusion. He gripped my hard-on in his fist.

“I s’pose I’d better finish you off, or you’ll be walking around like a fucking sundial all day.”

Normally it was the sort of joke that would make me laugh, but this time I said nothing. I just stood there, chest against the rail, with his hand on my cock. I was hurt by his words and by the way he’d used me, but I also found his savage fuck strangely exciting. I knew he wasn’t a deep thinker; that he acted on instinct more than rationality, but I was the one person that he’d always been considerate towards. Until now.

Terry started wanking me off. Almost immediately I started squirming in ecstasy. I made a conscious effort to suppress my groans. With his cock still up my ass, I didn’t want to make it look like I was enjoying it too much, even though he was driving me wild. In almost no time, I felt a monumental orgasm commencing.

“Oh fuck. Fuuuck. Faster!” I said, deliberately speaking to avoid the risk of squeals of delight. I felt as though giving him instructions was more manly, especially in light of the fact that I’d just given up my cherry to him.

But Terry wasn’t fooled. He pumped fast and hard, forcing my balls to give up my spunk in gushers that felt like a hose spraying.

“Yeah go on you little faggot, you fucking love that don’t you?” he said, grinding his still rigid cock into my hole as he milked me dry. “Yeah, you fucking queer, this is a dream come true isn’t it?”

I barely heard his words at the time, although my brain registered them for later analysis. I came so hard, I felt like I was losing consciousness. I was squirming and writhing, my eyes squeezed shut, my mouth in a wide grimace baring my teeth as I was swept away on a tsunami of pleasure that I have never since come close to again.

Terry continued talking dirty, and insulting me until I finally had no more to give and his hand started to make my post orgasmic helmet sore. My balls ached.

“Stop Tel, that’s enough. I’m done. It’s hurting now.”

I half expected him to carry on working me over out of newly discovered sadism, but he stopped.

I opened my eyes and I was surprised to see a fountain of cum had been sprayed on the floor beneath me and five feet ahead of me, like paint on a Jackson Pollock. At first I thought that it must have been our combined contributions, then I realised it couldn’t be, because Terry was still inside me. I frowned in amazement.

Terry finally pulled his cock out of my asshole, and my sphincter snapped shut with a feeling of relief, although it would be two weeks before the pain of his fuck would finally ease, and 6 weeks before I could take a shit without pain.

I stayed leaning on the fence a few more moments, nervous about which Terry I would meet when I turned back, and embarrassed at my own reaction to being wanked with his cock inside me.

I turned slowly, looking at the ground, and I pulled my trousers and pants up over my rapidly softening cock. Terry was casually playing with his still rigid cock. It was streaked with my blood.

“Fuckin’ hell, that feels better,” he said lightly.

I looked him in the face nervously.

“Now I know where to go whenever I get blue balls in future!”

I didn’t know how to take it. He put his cock away in his pants, then reached into mine and gripped my balls firmly.

Looking at the vast funnel of spunk spatter I had sprayed on the floor.

“I don’t suppose these little fuckers have got much left in ‘em”

He squeezed my nuts more than hard enough to hurt, I hunched and winced, looking him in the face.

“Let’s go back to yours and play Call of Duty,” he said, as though the most monumental thing ever to happen between us hadn’t just happened.

I studied him for a few seconds, looking for the trap, but it was like the other Terry had returned.

He let go of my balls and draped his arm around my shoulders.

“Thanks for that,” he said, as though I’d had any real choice. “You’re not a bad fuck.”

I considered saying “You’re not so bad yourself” just to lighten the mood, but I was still uncertain what the new rules were between us, so I remained silent as he steered me towards the door. I could feel his cum leaking out of my asshole, so I pulled the bottom of my hoody down as low as I could in case anyone saw, and then we went back to mine to play video games.


For the next couple of years, Terry fucked me fairly often, when he couldn’t get a girl to fuck, or he as just in the mood for my hole. I think he secretly enjoyed the emotional bond between us whilst he was fucking.

One time I timidly suggested that I might try fucking him.

“Are you fucking kidding ya cunt?”

He laughed as though I had made the most ridiculous suggestion ever.

“There’s no fucking way son. I fuck and you get fucked. That’s the way it is. The ONLY way it’s ever gonna be.”

I didn’t push it. Now I knew my place in the relationship.

I enjoyed getting fucked by Terry as long as we were close, but over time, I started to become more and more unhappy with his bigoted attitudes towards everyone. I was especially bewildered how he could muster genuine hatred towards gays. One day, he and couple of his mates even jumped a couple of queers on the way home from a club.

It was the beginning of the end for us, and though I was sad to see him go, when the police turned up and showed him that he had been caught on security camera, I didn’t shed a tear when he was sent to prison for eight years. He’d be out in five with good behaviour, but I determined that I would be long gone by then, and I was. I never saw Tel, and his self hating behaviour again, but I still remember that first fuck with a mixture of fondness and sadness.

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