MN Manmacker's mansploitation
Delsinerr is also known as the Lady of Vows and the Lady in White.
Books
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Thumper is outta prison, and he’s in for something he’s never faced before…
Working as a bouncer, Thumper finds himself haunted by a owl-masked woman whose very presence scrambles his brain. She presents him with a dilemma and an opportunity — to turn back time and be a young man again — but is he man enough to take it?! Will the Lady of Vows sink her talons into Thumper’s soul?!
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Chapter Three: That Ain’t Gangsta
Chapter Six: A Corrective Statement
Graham is a starving artist who pines for his love, but since he can’t have her, he’s gotta get his rocks off any way he can! That means a bevy of alpha bottoms, losers and degenerates are his only opportunities…
Can he handle his depression and his need for a nut?!
Buck is the head bouncer at a strip club, and that means he’s gotta test his men — with a load of gutpunching! He wallops, thumps, batters, beats and pounds on the bellies of the toughest bouncers in Martinsburg, West Virginia. Can they take it?
Poahi is a former professional rugby player and is a hobbyist surfer.
Descriptions
The sun shined bright and boisterous, baking the sand and the brash, bracing salt-spray. Poahi let the heat beat on his shoulders as he surfed the sun away. Waves swelled and crashed, and Poahi spent his hours astride the sea like the dolphins diving next to him. Him and his backstop Dale talked — or yelled the best they could as the ocean churned around them — but Poahi didn’t register any of it.
Today was all about the surf. And the dozens of onlookers looking on. They clapped and cheered and whooped when Poahi surfed, and their support kept him going. He didn’t respond to them, didn’t even acknowledge them. It was better that way. Dale waved at them, and he stopped to chat in between waves. Not Poahi. When Poahi washed in to the beach, he went back out to greet moana again.
When Poahi was a tamaiti, he and his friends always climbed on stuff — if there was something climbable, Poahi’d surmount it. His mother never understood and always yelled at him to get down. Poahi could never explain it to her — it just felt right to be above everybody else, to see things from above. Surfing in front of the crowded beach of swimmers and sunbathers felt the same way. He let a wave lift him up, and for a few seconds at least, Poahi was above it all, and mortal concerns seemed like somebody else’s problem entirely. When he was high on a wave, Poahi didn’t worry about Alison or about Lipsweet or his green card or about being a deadbeat or a ballhead. All he worried about was climbing those waves so he could look upon the land like a wairua.
From Poahi the Lackey
Books
Poahi the Lackey: In 1980s Los Angeles, Poahi works as a lackey for a small-time gangster, which doesn’t give him a lot of time for women… Luckily, he’s willing to ram his manhood at anyone crosses him. That’ll give this Polynesian alpha male plenty of opportunities to get a nut off!
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In 1980s Los Angeles, Poahi works as a lackey for a small-time gangster, which doesn’t give him a lot of time for women… Luckily, he’s willing to ram his manhood at anyone crosses him.
That’ll give this Polynesian alpha male plenty of opportunities to get a nut off!
Buck is a hillbilly from Smashwood Trailer Park. He works as an exterminator for Central Pest Control. His father is Martin “Goose” Sampson. His mother, Ellen, died when he was a child. He was raised by various older women in Smashwood. His best friend is Cody Lankford.
Moses Harley Sampson, a.k.a. Buck
Soon as Buck seed the dead-end after work, he took off his shirt — t’was a plain white tee shirt that done got all ripped up and turnt gray as dishwarter from the soaked-in sweat spreading from his armpits. His broad barrel chest gleamed, his hair matted to his skin. The hair upon his brow was slick with sweat too, a greasy black mullet thick as a jungle.
“You don’t use no soap or shampoo, you dirty-ass hillbilly, you smell like a cornbread’s fart.”
From Buck on the Oil Rig
Buck was lumberingly huge — nearly seven feet tall — and Cody was short and lean. They both had mullets, Buck’s dense and jet black, Cody’s a curly blond the color of old hay. Buck’s barrel chest crowded the cell, and his giant frame exuded so much heat he felt like a fireplace. But on the other hand, Buck was a local-champion boxer with biceps the size of a fat baby, and he knocked back any motherfucker who got in Cody’s face. He had only survived prison because everyone knew he was protected by his giant cellmate and long-time buddy.
Buck was so big and manly it was hard not to be intimidated by him. It was like standing next to a bull. Simon touched Buck’s chest through his shirt, and he smoothed out the wrinkles and fixed the buttons, which Buck had done up wrong with his sausagey fingers. Buck smelled so spicy and musky, his barrel-shaped chest exuding heat and scents that Simon didn’t understand yet still craved. It didn’t smell like cologne or deodorant, nor like sweat; it was Buck’s own musk.
It was Buck Sampson, a burly man with a blistering Appalachian drawl. He sometimes kept peace at Lipsweet on rowdy nights, but he was usually employed to collect debt for Simon’s pa, and that was what he been doing ce soir. He carried a pocketful of cash and a face full of cuts, with blood streaming sur his side and soaking his shirt. Buck snorted like a horse with a shattered sinus and wagged his finger at M. Prêteur.
He was nearly seven feet tall, so his voice had that dull-edged boom that big men had, like his words were tired from the long journey to his mouth so they just sort of baritonely flopped past his lips.
His jeans were threadbare in parts, and stained with oil and grease and dirt and grass and beer. When you were as big as Buck, clothes were hard to come by and you had to keep rewearing what you had for as long as possible.
Buck had a swampy dull-edged drawl. They were both from the same place — right here in Smashwood Trailer Park — but Buck had a heavy, lonesome accent full of nooks and valleys while Cody had a pitchy, yodelly twang, like his accent bounced off mountaintops on its way out his mouth.
He tried to breathe through his nose — Lucy hated it when he huffed and puffed, but Buck had been in so many fights his nose cartilage was busted, and his nose was squat, wide, crooked and sinus-clogged.
The smell made Buck wrinkle his crooked-cartilage fist-shape nose. He breathed loud cuz he was a amateur boxer and his nose done got broke buncha times a couple years back, in the early 90s. He tried to breathe normal, cuz Mistah Gregarian scumbled on another one his looks. Buck straightened his tie, which looked too short. Buck was so big most clothes ain’t fit. How far down was a tie sposedta go anyways? Buck ain’t know, and Mistah Gregarian’d scold him silly if’n Buck axed, so’n he ain’t ax.
From Buck the Dumbass
Buck sprouted up beside like a sudden stop sign. Buck was a darn near seven-foot-tall slab of hillbilly meat, with a big tangle of mullet, shoulders as broad as a ox and a oxy heave to his breathing too, cuzza his oft-broke nose. His nostrils was going thumbawumba as he slapped that man’s hand down like a unrespeckful fly.
From The Redneck Ex-Con, Cellmate Memories and Overwhelming Manhood
Buck was six foot eleven. He had to sit in a chair for Teddy to reach his head, and even then he had to slump down a bit. The body heat emanating from his broad shoulders made Teddy shudder a bit with desire. He inhaled deeply of Buck’s masculine musk, sweaty, intensely acrid and biting, a bit musty and warm and inviting.
He had taken off the real shirt he wore during his shift and now wore just the undershirt. It was tight on his shoulders — he bought the biggest he could find, but it wasn’t big enough. The strapped sleeves were frayed and digging into his shoulders, and the fabric ended an inch above his pants. The hair of his belly where it melded with his pubic hair was visible, and the shirt was matted to his chest with sweat.
From Aroused by Ex-Cons
He had scruffy black hair, uncut in the back, untamed, a little greasy, not quite a mullet but almost, all layers and tangles of unwashed hair. He was heavily tattooed and mustachioed, with a scruffier beard underneath that. He wore a sleeveless black shirt that showed off those tattoos: biker symbols, Rob guessed, and some words in flowing script. The shirt wasn’t made sleeveless, the ragged edges suggested he had cut the sleeves off.
From The Alpha White Trash
Buck was more of a oxeny plod-along peter, a pert near seven-foot-tall beast of a man, with a shaggy black mullet and a dense beard.
From Buck the Workin’ Man
Buck was a mulleted hillbilly, but even he treated Wayne like sub-caste dirt. His oft-broke nose wrinkled in Wayne’s direction, and Wayne aimed a polite nod back at him. Buck was a white trash mullet-heavy ex-con, big as a barge, broad-muscled, swollen ears, jutting chin, tall, heaps of hollers and hoots in his Appalachian accent.
From Wayne the Ex-Cop
“Put some clothes on, Buck! You smell like a disgraced donkey, and ya dick is ugly as sin, not one of the good sins neither. H’it’s like… gluttony-“
From Buck the Workin’ Man
Buck dudded up in black slacks and a bright yellow shirt with a white tie. He ain’t know if’n that “went together”, but t’wasn’t easy to find clothes that fit. T’was the nicest outfit he could put together prompt-like. The tie was tied right, he was sh’ore of that, but remained self-conscious ’bout it. It hugged his neck snug as a turtle shell. The shirt was too small round the wrists and neck. The American flag tattooed on Buck’s neck poked out atoppa the collar.
From Buck the Workin’ Man
Buck was a darn near seven-foot-tall slab of hillbilly meat, with a big tangle of mullet, shoulders as broad as a ox and a oxy heave to his breathing too, cuzza his oft-broke nose.
From The Redneck Ex-Con, Cellmate Memories and Overwhelming Manhood
That was a very big problem for Buck, who was a very big man. He had a cumbrous seven-foot frame, powerfully built, a former state-champion wrestler though that was more than a decade ago, and he’d filled out his muscles with heft and hair and a greasy black mullet of coarse curls.
From Buck the Ex-Con
Mistah Gregarian often done got after him ’bout showering. He did shower, he did. He was a naturally greasy man, t’was all. Even back in prison, they gets after him cuzza his hair capturing his sweat, making him greasy and stinkhoggen. They only let’cha shower e’ery other day in that prison, sometimes e’ery third day… Buck was a sissy slap south of seven feetses tall and got a bounteous ass to boot.
From The Redneck Ex-Con, Cellmate Memories and Overwhelming Manhood
Buck was a yawn short of seven feet tall. Cody was skinny as a shriveled rifle, while Buck was a thundercloud man with thickness abundant. Both got a mullet, Buck’s a greasy gom of raven tangles.
From Cody the Roughneck
Buck had scruffy black hair, uncut in the back, untamed, a little greasy, not quite a mullet but almost, all layers and tangles of unwashed hair. He was heavily tattooed and mustachioed, with a scruffier beard underneath that. He wore a sleeveless black shirt that showed off those tattoos: biker symbols, Rob guessed, and some words in flowing script. The shirt wasn’t made sleeveless, the ragged edges suggested he had cut the sleeves off.
Buck was pretty obviously a barrelhouse man — built like a ram, his nose and ears squashy and cauliflowered up like a boxer, his black mullet dusty, his unkempt beard as black as coal dust… He was too big, too hairy, too sweaty, too rough and too thick-headed for most women, and the dancers here were not shy about telling him so.
Buck was this mullet-headed hillbilly whose voice got all drawn out like his mouth was full of basset hounds.
From Tyrell the Ex-Con
Buck was a white trash mullet-heavy ex-con, big as a barge, broad-muscled, swollen ears, jutting chin, tall, heaps of hollers and hoots in his Appalachian accent.
From Wayne the Ex-Cop
“He stink like a shameful pony,” Tyrell said with a mournful tone.
Buck was nearly seven feet tall and built as broad as a buick, his nose bearing his brunt in the flattened crook of its angle… His glowery, razor’s-edge voice was smoky and thick, too deep to hear, all trenchant and teterrimous, and hearing his lips form his name made Simon’s knees quake. Buck had a big black mullet, greasy and thick like his chest… Buck was so big and manly it was hard not to be intimidated by him. It was like standing next to a bull. Simon touched Buck’s chest through his shirt, and he smoothed out the wrinkles and fixed the buttons, which Buck had done up wrong with his sausagey fingers. Buck smelled so spicy and musky, his barrel-shaped chest exuding heat and scents that Simon didn’t understand yet still craved. It didn’t smell like cologne or deodorant, nor like sweat; it was Buck’s own musk…
Buck was so big — a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than any other man here — and that mullet! His clothes were a wreck, his tee shirt too small, wrinkled, faded, frayed at the edges, even ripped and haphazardly sewn over the shoulder.
From The Redneck Ex-Con
He was a hillbilly, with long hair and a powerfully muscled body. He was burly and thick with an almost-six-pack that you could tell came from a high level of activity and low appetite, not because he was on a crash-diet. He was tall and heavily tattooed with Confederate flags and other mysterious symbols dotting his belly and an ornate, colorful constellation of designs on his right bicep.
From Buck Got Needs
Buck was a chambery hulk of a man, damn near seven feet tall and as broadly muscled as a ox. He got a thick, unkempt mullet the color of a new moon at midnight. Buck’s scruff covered up his ruddy cheeks… (a) chemical smell made Buck wrinkle his crooked-cartilage fist-shape nose. He breathed loud cuz he was a amateur boxer and his nose done got broke buncha times a couple years back, in the early 90s. He tried to breathe normal, cuz Mistah Gregarian scumbled on another one his looks. Buck straightened his tie, which looked too short. Buck was so big most clothes ain’t fit. How far down was a tie sposedta go anyways? Buck ain’t know, and Mistah Gregarian’d scold him silly if’n Buck axed, so’n he ain’t ax.
From Buck the Dumbass
that shouldersome stranger, so tall and thick-bodied that his muscles oozed off the sides of his stool. His hammer-wide fingers smeared up egg and gravy with a wad of biscuit, and he stuffed it in his mouth. His fat splat of a nose wriggled.
That’s because Buck was lumberingly huge — nearly seven feet tall — and Cody was short and lean. They both had mullets, Buck’s dense and jet black, Cody’s a curly blond the color of old hay. Buck’s barrel chest crowded the cell, and his giant frame exuded so much heat he felt like a fireplace. But on the other hand, Buck was a local-champion boxer with biceps the size of a fat baby, and he knocked back any motherfucker who got in Cody’s face. He had only survived prison because everyone knew he was protected by his giant cellmate and long-time buddy.
You could always tell when that hillbilly got hongry. He got a I-might-could-eat’cha-nigga look in his eyes. Damn could that honky eat… stinking like a armpit factory, a hillbilly sister-fucker who look like a cartoon basset hound. Lem tried not to watch his big hillbilly buddy, who was all hair, like a mullet came to life, and his giant chest be rippling as he plowed into her fat pussy. Annie seemed to enjoy the sensation, but she too avoided touching Buck who got a hairy back like a gorilla and he best not axe again fer Lem to shave his back, he can get some bitch-ass nigga to do it and Lem is not a bitch-ass nigga. It ain’t just a li’l hair neither, he got hair upon the shoulder, he got hair in the small of his back, you know how a honky do, and Buck is the honkiest. Buck done ate pulled pork t’was left out fer nigga-don’t-even-know-how-long. He got no kinda palate. His hillbilly ass done ate snapping turtle, rattlesnake, possum, squirrel and weasel meat b’fore’n. He got a favorite squirrel recipe. So’n if’n he won’t eat a bitch’s pussy, Lem weren’t gonna go near it.
From Buck on the Oil Rig
He got hands as big as a baseball catcher’s mitt, and just as leathery too, on account of Buck been working oil rigs and chain gangs since he was a boy.
“You are one straight-up retarded white-trash bigfoot!” Buck was a massive horse of a man with a well-barrelled chest, with a tangled curl of beard and a dense mullet the color of liquorice and shiny-slick with sweat and grease. He was as broad as a brown bullock..
From Buck the Roughneck
Buck Sampson had a thirteen-inch cock, pushing fourteen, and he was nearly seven feet tall, putting his crotch at most people’s head-height. That meant when he got a hardon, everybody around saw it. Lem was a little taller than average, so he didn’t have to dodge Buck’s stiffies lest he lose an eye, but he still noticed it when Buck got an erection.
Buck spent most of his time outside of work and the mess hall wearing a pair of faded briefs or less. He’d pop a boner most nights while speaking sweet about his girl Lucy back home or just plain doing push-ups. In those tighty-whiteys — or tighty-grays, mostly — his dong would pop out and shamelessly protrude. Lem disapproved.
From Buck the Roughneck
Buck wore his tattered tighty-whiteys. He had big low-hanging balls and that giant thirteen-inch pecker tucked into those tighty-whiteys, so his pubic hair poked around the mouse-nibbled edges. The pouch overflowing with his balls and dickmeat jiggled when he jogged in place. He shadowboxed the wall above Lem’s head
From Buck the Roughneck
He was an ex-wrestler and ex-boxer, so his nose was crooked and rugged, and it wiggled when his head moved. His voice was deep and broad, burdensomely dense, like it hurt to laugh… He inhaled deeply of Buck’s masculine musk, sweaty, intensely acrid and biting, a bit musty and warm and inviting. He had taken off the real shirt he wore during his shift and now wore just the undershirt. It was tight on his shoulders — he bought the biggest he could find, but it wasn’t big enough. The strapped sleeves were frayed and digging into his shoulders, and the fabric ended an inch above his pants. The hair of his belly where it melded with his pubic hair was visible, and the shirt was matted to his chest with sweat.
From Aroused by Ex-Cons
Buck had a black mullet, curly and dense, tangled, slick because he hadn’t washed it in a long time. His face was craggy, his prison-flattened splotch of a nose wide, and he had a fresh new prison tat running down the side of his neck to his broad shoulders…. Emotions flooded Lucy — horniness at the sight of his broad chest and jaw, relief that he was out of prison alive, surprise that he was here, lust at the sight of his prison-tightened body, disgust at his greasy and unkempt mullet, arousal growing deep within her at the scent of his unwashed manhood, even as she groaned to herself about the smell of cold cardboard that clung to him like a hobo. Buck was so big — a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than any other man here — and that mullet! His clothes were a wreck, his tee shirt too small, wrinkled, faded, frayed at the edges, even ripped and haphazardly sewn over the shoulder.
From The Redneck Ex-Con
His mullet was greasy and dusty and it smelled like him and it made her pussy tingle. Something about the way he had to stuff himself through the door to her trailer, his hefty frame not quite fitting, turned Lucy on until she couldn’t take it anymore… Buck was huge, and he stank of big-boy sweat. His crotch was an unkempt mess of pubic hair, his beard and mullet greasy and dusty, his windswept face harsh and a little pitying… Buck’s body hair was like copper wool, which was ironic because the hair on his head — his jet-black mullet — was always greasy and slick.
Lucy got distracted from her taters by the broad-brow man barreling down a big breakfast at the counter. He wore a faded and frayed suit that disfitted his frame, so’s his power-packed parts bulged ‘gainst the fabric. His mighty mane of crow-color curls made Lucy wanna run her fingers thru ’em. Bits of biscuit and clods of yolk got trapped in his lumberman’s beard.
Her attention was aimed upon that shouldersome stranger, so tall and thick-bodied that his muscles oozed off the sides of his stool. His hammer-wide fingers smeared up egg and gravy with a wad of biscuit, and he stuffed it in his mouth. His fat splat of a nose wriggled.
That was when she left the ladies’ to stroll behind the large man with the hamper of hair and the flinty face, reeking of cold cement and spiced cream. His eyes sparked, lively as a oil derrick, though his muscles thrummed like stormclouds ‘neath his suit.
“Hey, Mason, Mason, hoss, hey,” came a thick-and-raspy, holler-heavy voice in the darkness, so deep you could tell the speaker was tall and big-chested. He sounded like a church bell come to life. The roughneck gotta stoop to come into the first-aid clinic. He was indeed a mighty stack of shoulders. He was Buck Sampson, the biggest worker on Rig E19 in the North Pacific. He was as broad as an ox and as tall as a gorilla, well past six and a half feet, tall enough to duck when he walked through the rig’s doorways. He had a big mane of greasy black curls. His shirtless chest rippled, his body hair clinging to his skin because of a sheen of sweat gleaming in the light that spilled in from the corridor. He exuded heat that Mason could feel, amid the cold barreling in from the harshly lit and unheated corridor. Buck was nearly naked, wearing only a pair of scrawny tight-whites that ain’t fit on him. The pouch was overstuffed, the outline of his giant cock clearly visible, pubic hairs protruding around the sides.
He got big features — a big nose that was cattywompus and bulging, like a swollen fist — he was an ex-boxer, that was why, his nose busted up like his cauliflowery ears — big lips, big chin, big ears, big square cheeks — and his damn near seven-foot frame took up lotta room in the clinic. He radiated heat from his hairy chest.
But Buck was often shirtless and sometimes stripped down to heavy socks and underwear. Mason enjoyed the sight of muscular men, and Buck was a perfect specimen of that. His meaty, non-sixpacked body tasted savory like pizza dough.
“You ain’t gonna spend all ya time in here working out, is ya?” Cody asked Buck when he saw Buck getting friendly with the Jagged Right’s enforcers. They wasn’t gotta ask Buck if he wanna be an enforcer like them — ain’t no other option open for a feller like Buck. Sure as shit weren’t gonna be an accountant or something. Buck was dumb as a whole truck fulla dead ducks, and he got muscles for miles.
Buck’s truck
Buck’s pickup was held together with duct tape, and though the engine was cherry, the windshield was cracked, the wipers and turn signals did not work, the floor was rusted through and the gas gauge read as perpetually empty.
From Poahi the LackeyBuck’s steelbare truck, which looked like it shouldn’t run at all. Ancient pinprick holes let in rays of late afternoon light all over, and the door on Johnny’s side was red while the rest of the truck was greenish-gray. The door didn’t shut perfectly either, like the body had been dented and never fixed right. The engine purred like an angry bobcat.
From Johnny Redcob the Bouncer
Books
Roughnecks Got Oral Needs!: As the medic on an oil rig in the North Pacific, Mason has his hands full — full of men! One of the workers is the massive hillbilly Buck Sampson, whose meaty body is exactly what Mason craves. He can’t wait to get a grip on all of Buck’s parts, and now that there are no women around, roughnecks like Buck are ready to give Mason the ride of a lifetime! (whole ebook is free!)
Buck the Roughneck: Buck is off to a rig to make a little dough… and maybe a friend! He’s bunking up with an older black fellah named Lem, and the two are gonna get into some crazy shenanigans, both on the rig and on leave. They’re ain’t no females around most of the time, so Buck and Lem are gonna have to satisfy their needs one way or another. That means they’re in for a world of gloryholes, roughhousing, horseplay and hot, throbbing manhood!
Ex-Con Cravings Can’t Be Refused: Buck is out of prison and ready to tear things up in Smashwood Trailer Park! He needs to make some quick cash and get his rocks off. While he doesn’t want a reputation as a booty bandit, he doesn’t much care if his bottom-punk is a man or even willing to bend over — as long as nobody finds out, Buck is glad to get down and dirty! When a rough and rugged ex-con like him needs to do the nasty, nobody can say no…
Buck Got Needs: Buck is a big burly rogue and a bit of a hillbilly, and he’s got needs — to get his meat drained and to pay the bills. He’s lucky there’s some fellahs out there who can satisfy both needs!
Buck & Cody Outta Prison Again: Cody and Buck have been released from prison again, and they’re in for a wild time! Neither has much reluctance around messing with men when they need to, but neither are willing to admit it either. Can they both keep secret what happened behind bars?
Aroused by Ex-Cons: At the bar where Teddy works, the bouncer is a big-bodied redneck named Buck the Ex-Con, and he could use a place to stay… Teddy’s all too glad to help! Buck lets Teddy go to town all over him, as long as he follows a few simple rules — which Teddy takes as optional! Plus Buck helps Teddy explore the world of forcefully dominating trashy hobos, crackheads and trustees in Buck’s most intense adventure yet.
Fists, Men and Muscles: Buck is the head bouncer at a strip club, and that means he’s gotta test his men — with a load of gutpunching! He wallops, thumps, batters, beats and pounds on the bellies of the toughest bouncers in Martinsburg, West Virginia. Can they take it?
Buck and Cody Locked Up Again: Everybody’s favorite trailer park boys Buck and Cody are locked up again, and they’re in for a hardcore and intense journey of man-on-man action. They are a pair of mulleted rednecks — Buck is big and burly, while Cody is small and mouthy, but both of them will do what it takes to survive… and to get their rocks off, in this overcrowded prison cell. Can they make it through their incarceration? They’ll have to survive stabbing homeboys, vindictive guards, one whiny Hebrew and a meth-head with a willingness to get his next hit one way or another! Buckle up, and get strapped in for a wild ride!
The Redneck Ex-Con: Buck’s back! The white trash alpha ex-con Buck Simpson is out of prison again, and he’s got a new partner-in-crime, Nathan. If Nathan doesn’t meet Buck’s standards, he might be in for a pretty rough time, because as much as Buck tries to deny it, he’s a jailhouse booty bandit who doesn’t take no for an answer! That means Nathan is in for a bevy of noncon man-on-man action full of rednecks, raunchy prison sex and disgusting hobo rutting!
The Alpha White Trash: He’s down on his luck and lookin’ fer a place to crash… Buck is a rough-and-tumble ex-con on parole, and he’s ready to swing on the downlow if that’s what it takes! His brawny manhood will satisfy his “benefactor” like only a macho alpha male can. Buck even has a couple friends with some adult needs, and that’s about to lead to some of the raunchiest man-on-man action ever!
The Redneck Ex-Con, Cellmate Memories and Overwhelming Manhood: Buck is a bouncer and a lackey for a gangster, not to mention an ex-con with a need to get his dick wet! After so much time with men in prison and on an oil rig, Buck doesn’t much care if it’s a man or a woman on the other end. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. He’ll dick a feller down as punishment, payment or just cuz he can! So what happens when he meets a cocky lacrosse jock with gropey hands and disrespect for women’s boundaries? You’re about to find out!
Buck on the Oil Rig: Buck Sampson is working on an oil rig once more, and without women around, the hard-edged roughnecks there get their rocks off through whatever means necessary! Buck’s bunking down with Lem, an old black feller with dick for days and muscles to match, and when the two of them have leave, they really do get down and dirty! Can Buck make it through his contract with his booty intact? Can Lem?
Buck the Dumbass: Buck is an idiot, a dumbass, a moron and stupid as a brick factory, and it’s time someone told him so! He’s in for it now, plus plenty of man-on-man action on the downlow and not so low at all. He’s big, he’s bad, he’s broad and he’s ready to kick ass and do other things to that ass as well! You won’t believe the adventures he’s getting into. (whole ebook is free!)
Buck the Conservative: It’s 1969, and hillbilly veteran Buck Sampson is home from Vietnam, while his bunkmate Smooches is a free love hippie. Can they find a way to live together? Buck’s big, tough and intimidating to Smooches, who cowers before him. But they just might have a couple things in common too Then when the lights go out, Buck is ready to drain his balls even without any women. Can Smooches survive his manly ways?!
Buck the Ex-Con: Buck is out of prison again, and he’s up to his old tricks! He’s got a plan to stay out, but will it work? Buck is a muscle-bound ex-con redneck who doesn’t want to go back to prison and doesn’t want a reputation as a jailhouse booty bandit… but even more than that, he wants to stick his rod in anything that moves! So he’s got to satisfy his needs on the DL, even if that means holding down some hobos, addicts and losers, while doing the dirty in the dirt!
Buck the Workin’ Man: Buck Sampson is a hefty ex-con back to the trailer park after a stint on a work-camp, where he got down and dirty — real dirty! He’s got a nose for getting a nut off anyway he can, even if it means getting raunchy. He’s in for a wild ride, including a desperate hobo, a kidnapped dog, an annoying hipster, a burly mountain man and more! Can he handle swinging this low on the downlow?!
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Content
Sexy stuff
Pictures
See the Buck Sampson gallery for pictures.
Videos
See the Buck Sampson videos page for videos.
Thumper White is an ex-con and a retired heavyweight boxer, and he do lay the smackdown on any fool who talks back to him.
Descriptions
A door in the hall opened, and a middle-aged Black man with a graying beard like a billy goat and ebon cornrows on his scalp poked his head out. He was so tall he had to stoop down into the doorway. Bill could just barely see by his bare, broad shoulder muscles that the man was shirtless. The rows between the corn on his scalp were dappled with sweat.
From Thumper on Parole
The man opened the door the rest of the way, revealing his bare chest, muscles glistening with sweat. A frown flitted over, then he plastered a sunny smile on his face. He filled the doorway, body failing to fit within his tight-white briefs, bristly pubes protruding around the sides. He had thighs like tree trunks and arms like cannons… His file said he was a pro boxer before his arrest. That was thirty-four years ago. He still got the body of a heavyweight boxer though, now peppered with salty hair and coated with prison tats, and his hands were the size of catcher’s mitts. His topaz skin glistened with moisture that dripped down to make his hand slippery in Bill’s grip.
From Thumper on Parole
He wasn’t ugly, but he certainly wasn’t handsome either, with a squat, bullish face, wild cornrows and a scruffy chin. He wore only a pair of thin shorts, so his body, pockmarked with scars and tattoos, was nearly bare.
Thumper’s apartment above Lipsweet was a sparse bachelor’s abode. There were no personal belongings, no decorations, just a plain couch, a chair, a Super Nintendo and clothes neatly folded in compact piles on the floor. Towels and clothes hung to dry on all the interior doors. They smelled like body soap, not laundry detergent. His mattress was on the floor, and the sheets wasn’t done up right, the bed unmade, just a tangle-pile of blankets, dirty socks and bedsheets.
The old head was maybe fifty or so, and his unkempt beard was salt with black streaks, but the hair on his head, done down in tight cornrows, was jet-black and thinly peppered with silver. He wore a ruddy brown jacket with a lapel like a pool shark atop old-fashioned daddy-bear jeans. He was broad-shouldered and thick as a boxer.
He was Thumper White, twice the age of Jaekwel and Deon and twice as loud too. He got a coarse silver chin like a untended goat and peppery cornrows on his head. His boominous voice rumbled above the idling work-truck… Despite his age, he stayed a spitfire and hit every beat. He ain’t dawdle, even at five-thirty in the morn… Thumper leaned forward, his rammy beard smelling like the unwashed parts of old ladies… Thumper done lift his unclean undershirt up over his uneven cornrows, so his overheaten high yellow chest steamed with a gleamy sheen in the teeming air… He clasped his faded six-pack — he usedta be a professional boxer, before his prison stay, so you could tell he carried a six-pack his whole life before it faded away like a sun-bleacht carpet.
From Thumper the Mover
The old head was maybe fifty or so, and his unkempt beard was salt with black streaks, but the hair on his head, done down in tight cornrows, was jet-black and thinly peppered with silver. He wore a ruddy brown jacket with a lapel like a pool shark atop old-fashioned daddy-bear jeans. He was broad-shouldered and thick as a boxer.
When he talked to Caitlin Smiles the other day, she done snicker the whole time like she was too perfect to talk to a uncool old man who smell like a laundromat.
But he was much larger than Kevin, brimming with muscles and tattoos; he had prison-thug swagger and a hard-as-iron jaw, and his presence made Kevin’s knees weak all over again. Kevin’s soon-to-be cellmate had been a professional boxer before he was locked up, and he was still built like the heavyweight champion he had been back then. His cornrows were scraggly and tinged with silver.
Thumper was rugged, firm, stout, crisscrossed with cheap tats and scars, silvery hairs on his chin, chest, arms and legs. He must have been working out before Kevin arrived because he wore only shorts — with a noticeable bulge — and he was covered in a fine sheen of sweat.
From Thumper Gets Nasty
Thumper felt like an old-timer. He had been in prison for thirty-four years and five months. He felt like he had withered away to nothing in here. Not physically, but mentally and emotionally. Physically he was still a towering man, swarthy, broad-chested, with biceps that bulged from ten years of daily improvised workouts. He had prison tats covering his body, and a network of scars from a couple stabbings and one incident in which he was splashed with boiling water, leaving little tiny dots of permanent scars over the left half of his body.
From Thumper the Ex-Con
Just ten years ago, he thought, he had had a six-pack like a movie star, and a handsome shock of jet-black hair. He had thundered across the country on a motorcycle, leaving a chain of broken-hearted chicks and pissed-off cops. Now it was stricken with splashes of gray, and his six-pack had melted away into a flat but meaty belly.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, with deep brown skin and a rather squat face like a boxer. He looked to be in his mid-thirties but he had the body of a man half that age, muscles bulging out of his overly tight tee shirt.
From Thumper the Ex-Con
Thumper was rather the opposite. He was older, just past fifty years old — he was three times Deyon’s age — and he had never been a prettyboy. He was a boxer in his youth (and still occasionally in prison). He retained a powerful, barrel-shaped frame, covered in scars and marks, with a hairy chest. He had never had a six-pack, though his belly was flat. He had frizzy, unkempt cornrows, and he was perpetually slick with sweat.
Rico was whipping out whine and sucking on his teeth. “I gotta share a place with him? Old head smells like a band-aid, nigga! Gimme my own place. I can’t live with old nigga, he prolly drink tea and shit. Put his hair in the drain-“
“Coffee gimme lumpy throat, nigga!” Thumper wagged a finger at Rico.
Thumper was unplugging the television in the living room; he was bigger and older, scruffy, cornrowed and lighter-skinned. Thumper had an intense and potent flavor; he tasted of blunt ash and grimy city streets. He smelled of prison cells, men in cramped conditions and unwashed ballsweat.
Fucking Thump said his favorite food was buttered noodles, and his “specialty” was ramen with barbecue chicken — where “barbecue” means bottled barbecue sauce, not barbecuing, cuz that nigga spent his whole life in a cage. He ain’t some kinda gourmet neither, Deon thought with increasing bitterness, Thumper ain’t never had tempura, sushi or hibachi till last month, that out-of-touch notiony old nigga was Japan-ignorant. He’d prolly explode if he ate a curry. Thumper said he “never heard of ‘Thai food'” like he thought it was a conspiracy theory, shit, he even shot down jollof rice as “nightcheek bullshit”. That nigga maybe never cooked with nothing but a hot plate and a microwave.
From Thumper the Mover
Eventually, as time do be doing, it went on, and night’s close drew near. This was it. Thumper was a free nigga, and he got a job, and here it was. This was freedom. He bin imagined hisself living like he did when he was nineteen and a champion boxer and got a coach and high-quality knees and a posse of niggas with plans and he couldn’t swing his dick around without knocking down a white bitch flinging her pussy at him. Now, he gotta speak up to get any fool to pay him mind. He was just another nigga, not in charge of shit, not even within earshot of being in charge. In prison, Thumper was the nigga who did and everybody knew it. Here, he was just the creepy old head, the new nigga, nobody’s uncle, the graybeard whoever over there. Thumper overheard the dancers whisper about him as the uncool old nigga, as out-of-touch as a frozen caveman. Davon too, he was joking earlier with Bud the club deejay that Thumper was “old-school but not the cool kind of old-school, he’s old-school like an abandoned orphanage”. They all looked at him like a car nobody makes parts for anymore. Thumper pretended not to hear all them all badmouthing him. That was easy cuz they thought he got old-nigga ears.
Thumper was a doddery old nigga who dressed like a fossil. Thumper woulda told them to spit and sit, and he’da flurried up a couplea fisty cuffs if they ain’t show the proper respect with a quickness. If Thumper was in prison still and some young cats fussed at him to hurry, he’d correct them kittens sans mercy. Sans mercy as hell.
Them niggas Thumper don’t know was milling and filling the air through with gab and daps and hairdos, but Thumper sat alone. They all avoided watching him brood like a bothered tiger. That’s what Thumper woulda thunk too, thirty-some years ago, if he saw a cast-iron nigga sitting on his lonesome surrounded by young cats he ain’t talk to. He ain’t put out menace, but they all picked it up. Outgoing ex-cons get a million nosey questions from numptious niggas, so Thumper was glad to scare ’em off. If they all got to chatting at him like lightbulby poppa-rot-seas, he’d-a most likely dropped one or maybe all. So he gloomed around like a ex-con who pretty niggas should stay away from, and they did so, wise as newspapers.
He arrived at his cell with blood streaming down his leg. The Bloods steady sent him out to fight — he was a enforcer, that was his job in the cell block. He ain’t never apply for it, he ain’t never say that’s the job he want. When you look like Thumper, with a face like a catcher’s mitt and hands like battering rams, you best believe every nigga gonna front like you is a enforcer, so you gonna hafta enforce something. Niggas do be stepping.
Then to his left, Thumper saw a big-ass powerhouse nigga, as high yellow as sunshine.
It was him — Thumper recognized that young cat, it was Thumper hisself, Thumper from thirty-four years ago. He got a handsome mug and just a couplea tats. His skin was taut, and his bladder neck ain’t gone batty yet — couldn’t see that, but Thumper could tell. This nigga, this cheekbone-laden young-nigga Wendell, he got the swagger of a man who do piss a reasonable number of times a day.
Thumper could tell from the tattoos that that young-nigga Wendell was from right before his prison sentence. He got them dice on double sixes on his shoulder. Thumper got that tat couplea days before the unlicensed boxing match that led to his arrest. Young-nigga Wendell ain’t got none the prison tats that present-day old-nigga Thumper got.
When he talked to Caitlin Smiles the other day, she done snicker the whole time like she was too perfect to talk to a uncool old man who smell like a laundromat.
Wendell White, a noir employ of Simon’s father. He barked out orders as soon as Sheriff Terwiliger was seen. Wendell was in charge of getting the noirs out back when needed. He was almost as big as Beau but his skin was the color of a light roux, and he got a round face, his close-knapped hair tinged with gray. He barked for action, quick as you please. He wasn’t Creole, but the noirs knew he was in charge.
He could feel dozens of pairs of eyes watching him, most importantly the gigantic beastly man in the cell right in front of him. Mason’s new cellmate was a brutish brown-skinned monster, Mason thought, like a shaved beast. Thumper wasn’t ugly, but he certainly wasn’t handsome either, with a squat, bullish face, wild cornrows and a scruffy chin. He wore only a pair of thin shorts, so his body, pockmarked with scars and tattoos, was nearly bare.
He inhaled of his delicious old-homeboy scent — Thumper wasn’t really old, but he smelled like an old man, like all the older homeboys he had lived with behind bars until just a few days ago. He smelled like an old homeboy whom time had left behind.
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Thumper is a bodyguard for the Gregarian family, which puts this excon in a position to swing downlow with some unlucky men! You see, Thumper’s a booty bandit, so when he needs to or wants to or is bored, he’s gonna get up some homeboy from behind!
He survived prison, but can Thumper handle bodyguarding a college girl?
When Teddy the bartender gets to swing on some yakuza alpha male meat, he jumps at the massive macho Wuzu. Wuzu is treated like a dumb brute by the other yakuza, so can Teddy tame this wild beast?
