The Ass-Pumpin,' Pussy-Thumpin,' Seed-Dumpin' Dicker Man!

                                       "Get on your knees, wife!" the
                                       husband voice commanded. What he
                                       had said somehow sounded familiar.
                                       She'd heard that before, somewhere.
                                       She knelt down, naked in the
                                       meadow, and found that she was
                                       now at Puck's height. He was
                                       looking right at her. With a tad more
                                       drool on his mouth, the naughty imp.

"Put your mouth on Puck, wife!" the voice said, as hands urged her head forward and nearer to Puck. Rose felt a playfulness come over her, so she decided to ad-lib it up a bit more.

"Now, Mr. Puck, I'm gonna give you a nice saliva bath and get you all as clean as rainwater, but I don't wanna hear a peep outta you. So, if you know what's good for you, Pucky boy, you'll be good and not impish in your manner. You understanding me, Pucky?" Pucky now wobbled up and down, signifying he did. "Good Puck!" was all Rose said.

Puck might have kept to his up and down waggling, one can only guess, if Rose hadn't taken his entire Puckish head into her warm and wonderful wifey mouth. And, amazingly, as she did, she could see the long, long length of Mr. Puck, right through her closed eyelids. And the curly, fur coat Mr. Puck wore around his neck seemed a great distance away from her eyes. She estimated the distance to be out to here . . . the length of the fish that got away, depending on the fisherman telling the story.

Dear Diary: I'm pooped, but, as tired as I feel, I gotta go and do my "thing" again. Ha ha! See you later . . .

JULY 19TH
Dear Diary: I know I haven't entered any of my usual stuff, about chores and all, but I thought you'd like me to keep this story in one long piece. OK? Good! Now, where were we? Oh, yes, Rose had Puck in her mouth and was giving him a good saliva bath.

"Now, wife, that's no way to give Puck a saliva bath, just cleaning his head and face! Oh, no, you've got to saliva clean his entire body, right down to his brown furry collar." In a wink, a Puckish wink at that, and before Rose even had time to think about it, old Puck, with the big hands holding Rose's neck in place, went right down her throat, making her rapidly blink, her eyes well up with tears and wanting to upchuck.

Which, for some reason, she didn't do. Which now amazed her as she felt the brown furry collar tickle her lips and nose. The big hands were now pushing her the other way, away from the fur collar. She could now see, through her still closed eyelids, the Puckish length she had taken into her mouth and down her throat. Puck, she said to herself, you're quite the lengthy little devil, now ain't you? And he was, if you care anything at all about such matters.

Then, when Puck's fat little head was the only thing in her mouth, the hands pushed her in the direction of the fur collar again. All the way down to lips-and-nose-tickle time. In one fell swoop, one deliberately fast fell swoop, or so it seemed to Rose at the time.

Then the hands did it again. And again. Back. Forward. Back and forward. Again and again. With Rose's saliva building up to such a state, old Puck was getting the bath of a lifetime. And from the moans and groans she heard him say way above her head, magically, as if Puck had become a great ventriloquist, Puck was really enjoying himself.

Then Puck totally started her! The little imp started throwing up into her mouth, and in a most copious manner, at that. Rose tried to pull her mouth off of him and read him the old riot act, but someone's hands had her neck held fast in place. She couldn't move even one inch.

As she felt Puck's upchuck ooze out around her lips, with a musky odor to it, she did the only thing she could think of to keep from drowning on it. She swallowed the whole vile stuff now puddling up and flooding her tongue and teeth.

But the vile stuff just kept a-coming! So, she swallowed again. And then had to do the same a third time. Puck, it seemed to her, and judging from the taste of it, had eaten an awful lot of something that was very salty and acidic-like. And was most throat-stinging in its aftertaste. Another quick swallow told her that much. But her bathing of Puck wasn't yet quite done.

"Suck Puck clean, darling, get him as clean as whistle! Now! Suck!" And Rose did suck. Until Puck was truly whistle-clean and not spitting up any more of his spritish upchuck stuff.

The big hands on her neck were removed. One of them was now under her chin, raising it upward. She found herself looking at her husband's face. He was smiling warmly at her. "That was wonderul, wife, just wonderful. You've made me and old Puck mighty happy. Mighty happy!" He smiled at her, this long, lost hubby of hers. She smiled back. Why not? If husband was happy and Puck was happy, she must be happy, too. Who wouldn't be, given the circumstance?

Then the husbandly man took the wifely woman by the hand and led her to a grass covered clearing.

"Lie down here, darling, we've got more passionate catching up to do . . .

Gotta run, Dear Diary. Nature calls me again! Ha ha!
Reminder to myself: Buy two new AA batteries.

JULY 20TH
Dear Diary: I know you're eager to find out what happened to Rose in the woods that day, but to understand it, Dear Diary, I have to tell you some things I know you've never heard before.

What happened next in the story goes by the polite name of intercourse. Naughty people, real naughty people, call it f - - king! That's where, Dear Diary, the man puts his thingy, it's called a penis by nice folk, but a c - - k or p - - - k by the bad ones, into the woman's thingy, which is called vagina in nice folk parlance, or pussy by the really naughty people, or worse, c - - t! A word I absolutely hate! Just hate it. It sounds so short and sharp it hurts my ears just to hear it said.

Well, anyway, Dear Diary, the handsome husband man put his penis into the wifey woman's vagina. And they had the intercourse. Just like that, like any husband and wife would do when on their marriage bed of sweet smelling meadow flowers.

But, Dear Diary, that husband man's penis wasn't what you might expect a normal husband to own. Nosirree Bob! It must have been this long! My hands are about a foot and half apart, Dear Diary. And it was, my dear Lord A-Mighty, this thick! I'm putting my hand around my wrist, Dear Diary.

Well, Dear Diary, poor Rose was scared a mite, I should say. She hadn't remembered it ever being that big before. Puck, Rose figured, must have magical powers and be able to turn himself into a baseball bat. A long, thick one with a large, plum-shaped head, to boot. The little devil.

But the husband man was real nice about it all. He didn't just go a-charging in the way you might imagine some silly boy might do. Oh, no, he was real gentle with his Rose.

Told Rose he was just gonna let her get used to its baseball bat size by letting old Puck soak himself in what the husband man called her natural female juices. It was, I reckon, just like he was a-softening up a hard apple for making some Apple Pandowdy. And, when he finally put it all the way into Rose, just as far in as it would go, mind you, there wasn't any pain to it. On the contrary, it felt to her like something wonderful was taking place.

He then started to ride Rose for all he was worth. Making up for lost time, I expect. Well, Rose gave him the riding right back, she did. Soon, both of them were just a-riding away, getting nowhere to be sure, but neither one of them seemed to care.

Then, Dear Diary, right in the thick of things, our Rose had what they call an orgasm. Or-Gaz-Um! That's where the woman feels, well, Dear Diary, I can't explain it too well. You'll just have to use your imagination when I tell you it felt like nothing Rose had ever felt in her entire life. Even when she has fresh batteries in that thing Rose keeps hidden under her mattress.

And it didn't just happen the once. No, no. It happened over and over again. Until Rose thought she'd keen pass out from all the bliss.

Then Puck, the baseball bat Puck, started upchucking again, from all the banging and excitement, I guess, poor fella. Rose could feel it, fire-like, as Puck's spit up splashed all over the inner walls of her vagina. And the way that husbandly man of her's yelled! You would swear he was a-scalded by the heat of Puck's upchuck, too!

Then, without understanding why, the husband man was gone and Rose found herself lying there, just naked, on their honeymoon bed of fresh meadow blooms. But Rose didn't mind. She knew he'd be back the very next day. The big hand had whispered that fact to her just before she had managed to open her eyes for real and could once again use them for normal seeing.

Dang, Dear Diary, Pa's at me again! He's nasty when he drinks. I'm fairly tempted to run away from home, I am. One of these days . . .

That, to the chagrin of anyone who had read this far, was the last entry in Rose Ann Pinkham's private little diary . . .

The first two people, two experienced police detectives, at that, to have read this far, just looked at each other. One scratched his head. The other just sat there, shaking his head.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?" He knew he was.

"The Dicker Man? That old fart? Shit, he probably gave up getting it up years ago!" He grinned at the other cop, who was now absent-mindedly thumbing the pages of the diary, riffling them as you would a deck of playing cards.

Then he noticed a small, pink, triangular shape peeking out from the inside front cover's diagonal flap. He pressed on the pink shape, pulled it out and unfolded it. They both saw it was a Post-It Note. With a scribble across one side. He read it quickly and passed it over to the other cop.

The other cop read it and looked up.

The two men now just sat there staring at one another . . .