He Huffed, He Puffed, They Made Him Moan
Copyright© 2025 by Eric Ross
Chapter 1: The Big Bad Wolf’s Naughty Night
Fairytale Sex Story: Chapter 1: The Big Bad Wolf’s Naughty Night - This is the TRUE story of the three little Piggs. Wolfgang Lupine "The Big Bad Wolf" thought he could huff and puff and blow their houses down—but the three little Piggs had other plans. Penelope the baker lured him in with cream and curves. Clarabelle the milkmaid milked more than his ego. And Bettina, the brick-house headmistress, made him beg for detention. No bedtime story—this is a filthy fairytale of whips, cream, and squeals of delight. He came to conquer. They made him moan.
Caution: This Fairytale Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Mult Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Fairy Tale Humor BDSM DomSub FemaleDom Light Bond Spanking Group Sex Orgy Cream Pie Food Oral Sex Sex Toys
Once upon a time (all the best fairy tales begin this way) in the sleepy village of Fairywood, Penelope Pigg lived in a quaint straw house that swayed slightly in the breeze. Penelope, a curvaceous baker with a penchant for tight aprons and a wicked sense of humor, was known for her delectable pastries—and her equally delectable flirtations. Her straw abode, while charming, was the talk of the town for its questionable structural integrity. “One good gust,” the villagers whispered, “and it’s all over.”
Enter Wolfgang “Wolf” Lupine, the village’s resident bad boy. With a mane of dark hair, a devilish grin, and a leather jacket that creaked seductively, Wolf was the kind of guy who could make a nun reconsider her vows. He wasn’t actually a wolf, mind you—just a man with a lupine swagger and a reputation for blowing through town, leaving hearts fluttering and panties in a twist. Rumor had it he’d once charmed a mermaid out of her seashell bra with nothing but a wink.
On a balmy summer evening, as fireflies danced and the air smelled of honeysuckle, Wolf sauntered up to Penelope’s straw house. He’d heard she was hosting a “baking party” and, never one to miss a chance for mischief, decided to crash it. Clad in his tightest jeans and a shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of chest hair, he knocked on the flimsy door.
Penelope answered, her auburn curls spilling over her shoulders, her apron barely containing her ample assets. Flour dusted her cheeks, and her green eyes sparkled with mischief. “Well, well,” she purred, leaning against the doorframe. “If it isn’t the Big Bad Wolf. Come to steal my cookies?”
Wolf’s grin widened. “Cookies? Nah, darlin’. I’m here for something ... sweeter.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a husky growl. “I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down.”
Penelope laughed, a throaty sound that sent a shiver down Wolf’s spine. “Oh, honey, you’ll have to do better than that. This house might be straw, but I’m made of sterner stuff.” She stepped aside, gesturing him in. “Care to test your lung capacity?”
Inside, the house was a cozy chaos of baking supplies—flour sacks, rolling pins, and a suspiciously phallic baguette. The air was thick with the scent of cinnamon and desire. Penelope’s “baking party” was clearly a ruse; the only guests were her, Wolf, and a palpable tension that could’ve melted butter. She handed him a glass of spiked lemonade, her fingers brushing his with deliberate slowness.
“So,” she said, hopping onto the counter, her skirt riding up to reveal a glimpse of lace. “What’s a wolf like you doing in a place like this? Planning to gobble me up?”
Wolf took a sip, his eyes never leaving hers. “Gobble? Oh, Penelope, I’m more of a ... savorer.” He stepped closer, his boots clicking on the wooden floor. “But I meant what I said. One good puff, and this whole place is coming down. Along with any inhibitions you might have.”
She arched an eyebrow, crossing her legs in a way that made Wolf’s jeans feel two sizes too small. “Big talk. But I’m not some Little Red Riding Hood, swooning at your growl. You want to blow my house down? You’ll have to earn it.”
And so began the game. Penelope, ever the tease, challenged Wolf to a “baking duel.” The rules were simple: they’d each make a dessert, and the winner would get to ... well, let’s just say the prize wasn’t a blue ribbon. As they mixed batter and rolled dough, the flirting escalated. Penelope “accidentally” smeared whipped cream on Wolf’s cheek, then licked it off with a slow, deliberate swipe of her tongue. Wolf retaliated by drizzling chocolate syrup on her neck, his lips grazing her skin as he “cleaned” it up.
The suspiciously phallic baguette had been relocated to the nightstand, where it observed the proceedings like a scandalized chaperone.
The kitchen grew hotter than the oven. Penelope’s apron was now more decorative than functional, and Wolf’s shirt had mysteriously vanished. As they worked, their banter was laced with innuendo. “You call that a whisk?” she teased, eyeing his vigorous stirring. “I’ve seen better action from a wooden spoon.”
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