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!
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?
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 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 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!
Buck is a hillbilly from Smashwood Trailer Park. He works as an exterminator for Central Pest Control or as a bouncer/enforcer for the bar Lipsweet. 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.
Want more of Buck? Keep scrolling for the official pics or see Buck’s Imaglr!
Moses Harley Sampson, a.k.a. Buck
He coulda knocked Limey out cold, hard and flat with one blow if’n he admiredta. Buck Sampson was damn near seven foot tall and built broad as a buick, biceps like fenders, chest purring like a jag. Shit, he liketa have done knocked skinny-ass Limey outta his sandals and his drawers, send him into next week like a defective calendar. Buck don’t even gotta muss up his mullet, which was wavy and black and greasy in the pen cuz he don’t got no shampoo to warsh it proper-like.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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 scruffierbeard 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 asissy slap south of seven feetses tall and got a bounteous ass to boot.
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.
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 beardas 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 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.
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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..
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.
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
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, burdensomelydense, 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.
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.
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.
“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.
Buck had a huge cock, as thick as a forearm, and his entire body was hairy. He was well more than a foot taller than his buddy and at least a hundred pounds heavier. He had a thick, crude face, like a caveman, like every part of his head was too big for all the other parts. He was tall enough that he was squashed into the truck cab, and he had a furiously untamed mullet that framed his oversized head.
Buck Sampson shook his head. His mighty thirteen inch cock flip-flopped between his callused mitts. He was a roughneck like some of the others, home from the oil rig to spend his money on his woman, which in fact was where she was today, shopping like a mother hen, leaving him free to wreck this sissy in whichever hole was free when Buck got into the trailer. Buck was damn near seven foot tall, built like a stevedore, which was not a word with which Buck ever done made acquaintance with, and he had a deep huffy-puffy voice
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. FromPoahi the Lackey
Buck’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. FromJohnny Redcob the Bouncer
Cody was short and rather skinny, and he had a confused rat’s nest of off-blond hair. But he also had a lack-of-food six-pack and dimples to die for and broad shoulders normally burnt red by the sun (but he’d been in prison long enough that he was pale as snow all over right now). He looked, smelled and sounded poor, and he was both short and skinny, so women wouldn’t give him the time of day.
Cody wasn’t gonna beat anyone up. He was too small. He was tough and scrappy, and he could hold his own in a fight against another small man, but he was only five-foot-four and built like a dehydrated fence.
But Cody ain’t never worked as a roughneck. That’s cuz rigwork required a big man, most often, while Cody was little — he was just past five foot tall, while Buck was a yawn short of seven. 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, while Cody’s was a wild and pokey blond.
The man was shirtless, a lean and lanky redneck in a red backwards baseball cap and muddy camo pants. He was a hillbilly, Avery thought and shivered as a frisson of desire ran up his spine. Cody tasted of dirt and distilled manhood, and the flavor made Avery want to cum as soon as he got a mouthful of Cody’s cock. He could taste the boisterous four-wheeling and the early morning hunting trips, wild ramps, barbecue sauce and chewing tobacco, he could even taste the unbridled patriotism.
Cody was little, just a spit over five feet tall, powerfully built for his size but still scrawny, with a raggedy shock of mud-blond hair. He was bright-eyed, green as jade, with light skin and a youthful face, looking younger than his big-ass buddy Buck, though they were the same age.
Roommates in the Dark: Cody lives with a bunch of cholos, which means when they get horny, he’s gonna hafta swing on the DL whether he wants to or not! He and the Mexicans get down and dirty cuz there’s no chicas about, resulting in an explosion of man-on-man machismo! Can Cody handle living with these vatos?
Cody the Roughneck: Cody and his big buddy Buck are off to work on an oil rig, and Cody’s in for the shock of a lifetime — everybody has to do a shift in “the barrel room”, where they must grin and bear/bare it! That way there’s always a place for the roughnecks to get their rocks off. The only downside is that Cody has to either take his turn or get someone else to take it for him, and that promises to be a mighty struggle indeed.Can Cody make it through his contract without taking anything up behind?
Bunkmates in the Dark: Cody’s gotta share his prison bunk with a rough-edged older man, Ripley, and in the dark, he’s in for a man-on-man ride he never expected! He’s gotta do things to satisfy his burly-bodied bunkmate, whether he’s into it or not.When the lights go out, can Cody do what it takes to survive?!
The Pickup Truck: When Avery has car trouble, he hitches a ride with a pair of rednecks with a pickup truck. They’re eager to get a nut off, a problem Avery is eager to help with, cuz Avery loves nothing more than submitting to alpha male hillbilly manhood. Can Avery get his truck fixed and satisfy his newfound redneck buddies?
