Category: Buck Sampson

Delaware ladies got ugly faces but fantastic tits

Lotta ’em wears comfortable shoes, they do, and they plays them some softball. But the brothel, at least, got proper ones.

He don’t wanna risk a chance to fuck one the Delaware ladies. They not that purdy cuz nuttin’ in Delaware was purdy, whole damn state look like a broke-down toilet and do smell like a clean urinal. T’was a long drive from Baltimore to Rehobeth, and Buck was glad to get away from the city fer awhile.
The brothel was a fancy-looking house that got too many people in it to be fancy. There was a bar on the outfront chock-fulla fellahs — mostly young people on break from college, it seemed — and the second and upper floors got tons of bedrooms with ladies in ’em. Dang doodle them’all was buxom ladies too. Delaware ladies got ugly faces but fantastic tits. Lotta ’em wears comfortable shoes, they do, and they plays them some softball. But the brothel, at least, got proper ones.
T’was when one lady, a purdy redhead with tits like campfires, came strutty-footing down the hall. “Hey, guys,” she said, her tits like maaaad jumping. She smelled like keeewees and strawberry, and you just know her hair smelled sweet! She do get a hillbilly’s heart a-racing! She batted them eyelids at Buck like you wouldn’t believe. “You two lookin’ for somethin’?”

From Buck on Bottom

All that jizz coated his old-man fingers and palm, and Buck’s knees went weak and buckled again

Sgt. Powers’s cum coated his asscrack. Plentya it trickled into his asshole, but it felt good to Buck that he ain’t take it directly. He shot a big load fer an old man, Buck was impressed, not that he would say so. It just kept on going, even when Buck thunk it was done a couple times. Another fat wad kept erupting, then another, ’til Buck’s whole backside from his scalp to his ankles was covered in nut.

Then Sgt. Powers cupped his punching-hand o’er Buck’s knob, and he catched up as much cream as he could. All that jizz coated his old-man fingers and palm, and Buck’s knees went weak and buckled again, as pleasure wracked his body despite the pain in his yet sore ass. More nut jetted into Powers’s hand, which overflowed onto the floor, cuz Buck shot huge loads back then. Still did, but he was only eighteen then, so he nutted up gallons, seemed like.
That was finally it though, and as Buck’s cock limpened, Powers used that jizz as lube ‘tween Buck’s asscheeks. Buck got no idear what was happening or why he would be doing that, so’s he just submitted as Powers smeared Buck’s own jizz onto his buttcrack.
Then the purpose became clear, cuz when Sgt. Powers attempted at him once more. His dick was slimy and slippery, and it nearabout went in. Buck grimaced and clenched his asshole tight. Powers be knocking hard on his butthole, his iron dick trying o’er and o’er to get up his guts.
Buck felt his staccato breaths condensing upon his back. Buck bristled and gritted his teeth. A vast wad of jizz spurted up Buck’s asscrack and up the spine of his back. It got all the way into Buck’s hair — which was shaved short then, no mullet — as Sgt. Powers pressed his muscular chest ‘gainst Buck’s back.
Sgt. Powers’s cum coated his asscrack. Plentya it trickled into his asshole, but it felt good to Buck that he ain’t take it directly. He shot a big load fer an old man, Buck was impressed, not that he would say so. It just kept on going, even when Buck thunk it was done a couple times. Another fat wad kept erupting, then another, ’til Buck’s whole backside from his scalp to his ankles was covered in nut.
Presumably, Powers’s chest was similarly coated in jizz, cuz he was pressed up ‘gainst Buck, his hands twisting Buck’s nipples hard ’nuff to make him hurt. Buck squirmed ‘tween him and the wall. Powers musta been too focused on his orgasm to tell Buck to stand at attention.

From Buck on Bottom

Ellendra Damascus

A dancer named Ellendra was up there taking off her lacy underthangs, while a low and slow song boomed out its beat. Her bits was mad on the jiggle.
“She lookin’ fer a place to spend the night?” Buck axed. Ellendra was purty but not gorgeous, and she got a wide ass you could eat cornbread off of. Buck love a sizable ass-booty. He was a big feller and don’t mind a big gal to go with, a gal with acres of womanhood to explore. The hooting homeboys who filled up Lipsweet ain’t seem bothered by her bigness neither. They be whooping and calling after her like nobody’s business.

From Buck on Bottom

Vanesha Jones

The gals at Lipsweet — a strip club near Baltimore — city not county — was beautyful indeed. Mosta ’em was black gals, which don’t bother Buck none. He loves hisself some black gals.
He admireta hook up with one them. Her name was Vanesha, and she was light-skinned, purdy as a plum, skin smooth as a snowy Sunday. But Vanesha done disappear, assumptively finding some feller with a willingness to buy cocaine. Buck’s eyes got drawn to a perky blonde with tits like sunshine, and Buck don’t wanna look away from her.

From Buck on Bottom

he uncurled his toes round the shaft, instead using the heft of his feet

Miles brung his other foot up to meet Buck’s jizz-flowing shaft then, and he used the meaty bottom of both feet to stroke it — he uncurled his toes round the shaft, instead using the heft of his feet. Both of ’em was working hard, like they was trampling his dong the best they could with both he and him sitting down.

Buck’s thirteen-inch cock throbbed and spewed jizz into his unkempt pubic hair, as Miles’s delicate li’l-man foot rocked up and down the shaft. A mumbly moan came outta Buck’s lungs. Miles’s toes curled round it.
“Oh yeah, Buck, love that cock…” Miles murmured, like he don’t wanna wake Buck up.
A gurgle came outta Buck’s throat when he tried-a say sump’in. He flopped one his mega-arms ’round, baring one armpit, but he ain’t got the coordination to do nuttin’ with it. The smell of his pit hair filled his nostrils. Miles’s nostrils too, but Buck wrinkled his nose, while Miles inhaled deep of the scent.
Miles brung his other foot up to meet Buck’s jizz-flowing shaft then, and he used the meaty bottom of both feet to stroke it — he uncurled his toes round the shaft, instead using the heft of his feet. Both of ’em was working hard, like they was trampling his dong the best they could with both he and him sitting down.
Another spurt of cum spewed onto Buck’s chest. His whole body twitched and tensed, and the motion made him queasy even as an orgasm rocked his body. “Heeeeyy’aaaaahhhh…” Buck waved his arms ’round in protest.

From Buck on Bottom

He was a scowling soybean, ticktocky voice like snapping chopsticks

B’fore’n the tussle ‘tween ’em could erupt, a hubbub commotioned itself behind ’em, and they both turned to see someone walk in. They both squared up.
Ain’t nobody allowed in they dead-end.
But it was Mistah Chow, the wonton-shape sunnyskin sumbitch who do run this oil rig. He was a scowling soybean, ticktocky voice like snapping chopsticks, and he looked down his nose at Lem fer being black and Buck fer being a hillbilly and the both them fer being American, trashy, ugly, dumb, hairy and barbaric. He do curl his lip. “You two, you go see medic, you have med-ic-aw fowms to do — you have vassinayshun, yes? You have done vassinayshun?” He stopped short on a frown like somebody spilled his rice when he seed the porno magazine in Lem’s hand. He grabbed it. “You haff po-no?”
“Aw, Mistah Chow-“
“No po-no! Is iwegaw!” Mistah Chow backed outta the dead-end, porno magazine in hand. “Go to med-ic to-night!” He was shouting like a Chinaman do, like a siren with a stutter, as he left the dead-end, and his words faded to machine-gunning echoes on all down the corridor.
A cathedral of silence spread thru the dead-end, and Buck and Lem exchanged knowing glances.

From Buck on Bottom

Buck don’t get that, but he don’t question the ways of crazy old black men. It’s a personal rule, and it do serve him well.

“Sweaty whiteboys smell like a closet of ham.”

Lem been suggesting they ‘trade off’ — that meant they both slurp upon each other’s knobs. It sounded narsty to Buck. He’d rather jack his own self off. Buck done made it clear he don’t admire to do that. He don’t wanna taste Lem’s old-homeboy dick. Lem steady went on ’bout it, slapping his limpness ‘tween his ropy thighs.
Supposably, black boys be doing it in prison.
“T’ain’t no thang, Buckums! You just gotsta focus on yo’ own meat steada yo’ mouf! You eat pussy! Ain’t no d’rent dan eatin’ pussy!” Lem don’t eat pussy. He do say it demeans a nigga. Buck’ll lick a female, no problem. Buck got no compinktions ’bout a pussy.
If’n Lem gets drunk ’nuff, he will lick a bitch’s asshole. Buck don’t get that, but he don’t question the ways of crazy old black men. It’s a personal rule, and it do serve him well.
As Lem went on and on like some crackhead’s crackhead uncle, Buck began his workout. He did push-ups, counting hisself off, and his broad shoulders sweated out, wafting his manhood into they dead-end. Eventually he dropped off his jeans and continued his push-ups in his drawers. He weared tight-whites, his asshair peeking round the frayed edges. The fabric was soaked up by the small of his back and his taint, wet ’nuff to be transparent.
“You stink, hillbilly,” Lem said with a harsh-eyed glare when Buck done finisht his push-ups. Buck ain’t respond. He just rested upon his belly ’til he was ready, then he rolled o’er onto his back, his drawers’s poucha fat balls jiggling to a rest ‘tween his legs. Lem put out a frown. “Sweaty whiteboys smell like a closet of ham.”

From Buck on Bottom

Both was correct in they own fashion.

B’fore a’ry of ’em knewed it, they drawers was off, and Buck and Deon played with they dingdongs absent-minded-like as they debated the movie’s story. There was a blonde and a brunette. Deon suggested a nigga stay preferring the blonde cuzza her ass, which was like perky possums in a paira pouches, while Buck said the brunette, she got bigger tits, like tasty volleyballs they was. Both was correct in they own fashion.

“Hell yeah, you can tell she puts out too!” Deon said. He stood up outta his camp chair, but that don’t even really make him much taller. Even standing, he was shorter’an the seated Buck. Deon jabbed a finger at the screen. “Whoop that! Fuckin’ white bitches, man, they let you know when they wanna fuck! That bitch wanna fuck!”

B’fore a’ry of ’em knewed it, they drawers was off, and Buck and Deon played with they dingdongs absent-minded-like as they debated the movie’s story. There was a blonde and a brunette. Deon suggested a nigga stay preferring the blonde cuzza her ass, which was like perky possums in a paira pouches, while Buck said the brunette, she got bigger tits, like tasty volleyballs they was. Both was correct in they own fashion.

From Buck on Bottom

Buck got big clodhopping feet

“You kept clean in there? Take off ya boots, sugah. Lemme make sh’ore you ain’t bringin’ the athlete’s foot,” Mistah Yancey said. But then b’for’n Buck could do so, Mistah Yancey bent o’er and undid Buck’s boot laces. T’woulda been easier fer Buck to do it, but Mistah Yancey gently pulled the boots off, then his socks. He hefted Buck’s foot, one after t’other, but Buck did the work of lifting his legs. Buck got big clodhopping feet with a strip of black hairs running up the top and a tuft of hair upon each toe. The toe tufts growed smaller but no sparser from the big toes to the li’l ones. Mistah Yancey wrinkled his nose, but he inhaled with gusto and don’t move away none.

From Buck on Bottom

the soma and the pneuma

“Hmmm,” Mistah Yancey said with a vague but comfortable cluck of his tongue, a sound that gestured at and acknowledged the futility of combatting the creep of caducity, that communicated and demonstrated his compassion at a socioculturally appropriate level and that constituted and signified his acceptance of the inevitable entropy of the soma and the pneuma. He sipped deep from his wine. “You look well. You worked out in prison?”

“How is your grammaw, Buck?” Mistah Yancey axed. He sat back down with his wine.
“Grammaw Daisy, she doin’ fine, reckon, I ain’t seed her in a spell. She ain’t do no vis’tation in prison, on accounta she don’t drive. But she did call me, and she sent me pitchers. In the mail. She gots a liver thang. Doctuh say she need pills, but you know how she is, she discotton to takin’ pills.”
“Hmmm,” Mistah Yancey said with a vague but comfortable cluck of his tongue, a sound that gestured at and acknowledged the futility of combatting the creep of caducity, that communicated and demonstrated his compassion at a socioculturally appropriate level and that constituted and signified his acceptance of the inevitable entropy of the soma and the pneuma. He sipped deep from his wine. “You look well. You worked out in prison?”

From Buck on Bottom