He Huffed, He Puffed, They Made Him Moan
Copyright© 2025 by Eric Ross
Chapter 2: Clarabelle and the Stick Situation
Fairytale Sex Story: Chapter 2: Clarabelle and the Stick Situation - 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 Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Fairy Tale Humor Food Oral Sex
In the butter-yellow light of morning, the village of Fairywood stirred, birds chirping, cows mooing, and somewhere in the distance, a suspiciously satisfied baker snoring in a bed of crushed straw.
At the edge of town stood a tidy little house built entirely of sticks—each plank straight, varnished, and precisely aligned like it had passed a moral inspection. Inside lived Clarabelle Pigg, Penelope’s older sister and the village’s most virtuous milkmaid. Clarabelle was known for her spotless petticoats, her stern glares at suggestive vegetables, and her devotion to dairy. She milked her cows at dawn, churned butter at noon, and recited moral proverbs at dusk.
But virtue, like cream, has a way of rising—and sometimes spilling.
Clarabelle’s house smelled of lavender and disapproval. Her hair was always in a bun, her posture perfectly upright, and her corset laced tighter than her social calendar. But this morning, her routine was disrupted.
Because lounging on her front stoop, legs spread and teeth glinting in the sun, was none other than Wolfgang Lupine—shirtless, shameless, and chewing on a stalk of wheat like it owed him money.
“Morning, Clarabelle,” he drawled, eyes roaming slowly over her prim dress and scandalously full milk pails. “Heard you had some cream that needed collecting.”
Clarabelle’s nostrils flared. “You’ll kindly remove your ... torso from my porch.”
Wolf smirked. “You always this friendly in the morning, or is it just when you’re lactating?”
She gasped. “I will have you know I am a professional! These pails contain the pride of my livelihood.”
Wolf stood, moving like sin with a pulse. “Oh, I don’t doubt it. But I couldn’t help wonderin’...” He stepped closer, his voice dropping like a warm hand on bare skin. “If you treat your milk that well, how would you treat a man who really got you churning?”
Clarabelle made a strangled noise, somewhere between indignation and a faint whimper. “This house is made of stick,” she stammered. “It is sturdy, sensible, and utterly impervious to wolves.”
Wolf grinned. “Wanna bet?”
Clarabelle backed up a step, bumping into one of her perfectly stacked milk pails. It wobbled ominously.
“Careful now,” Wolf said, steadying it with one broad, calloused hand. “Wouldn’t want your cream spilling before I get a taste.”
She inhaled sharply. “You are a menace to decency.”
“And you,” he murmured, brushing her hand with his thumb, “are one curdle away from bad behavior. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Her cheeks flushed brighter than her raspberry jam. “You need to leave.”
Wolf didn’t budge. “Make me.”
Clarabelle narrowed her eyes and set her jaw. She reached for the nearest object—her butter churn. A practical girl would have used it to shoo him off. But Clarabelle, despite herself, held it like a shield between them. A tremor of something delicious and dangerous flickered in her belly.
Wolf tilted his head. “Is that a threat? Or an invitation?”
A beat. “It’s ... dairy.”
“Even better.”
Suddenly, the air was thick with tension, like cream on the cusp of whipping. Wolf stepped forward; Clarabelle stepped back. This time the milk pail tipped, splashing frothy white liquid across the floor and her shins.
“Now look what you’ve done,” she snapped, wiping her calves. “That was premium, unpasteurized—”
Wolf was at her side in an instant, crouched low, fingers skimming the spill. “What a waste,” he said, licking a drop off his thumb with exaggerated slowness. “You should be punished for letting something so sweet go to waste.”
Clarabelle’s knees buckled a little. “Excuse me?”