He Huffed, He Puffed, They Made Him Moan
Copyright© 2025 by Eric Ross
Chapter 4: The Big Bad Wolf’s Final Exam
Fairytale Sex Story: Chapter 4: The Big Bad Wolf’s Final Exam - 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
The parchment smelled like vanilla and danger.
Wolfgang Lupine turned it over in his hands, cocking one eyebrow as he read the curvy script aloud:
“You are hereby summoned to the House of Honey and Discipline. Dress code: none. Sincerely, The Pigg Sisters.”
He blinked. Then smiled. Then ran to find pants, because showing up naked was bold—even for him.
The trail led him through the woods, a breadcrumb path of rose petals, powdered sugar, and an empty milk bottle or two. By the time he reached the manor, his trousers were sticking to his thighs from arousal and anticipation.
The house was ridiculous. Glorious. Ridiculously glorious. The left wing was a swaying, golden thatched roof of straw. The right was stick-built and suspiciously barn-like. The center? Solid, unyielding brick, complete with a turret and what looked like a weathervane shaped like a paddle.
He knocked. Once.
The door swung open with the synchronized grace of a stage curtain.
There stood the Pigg Sisters: Penelope, Clarabelle, and Bettina. A holy trinity of chaos, curves, and command.
Penelope wore a flour-dusted apron and a look that said dessert’s not the only thing rising tonight. Clarabelle stood tall in white leather corsetry, her arms glistening with milk-sheen. And Bettina—oh, Bettina—was laced up like a Victorian librarian on her day off, with a crop balanced on her shoulder like punctuation.
“You’ve been very naughty,” Penelope purred.
Clarabelle added, “And very ... thorough.”
Bettina gave a tight-lipped smirk. “Time to assess your performance. Comprehensively.”
“Is this ... the final exam?” he asked.
Penelope stepped forward, sliding her hand into his waistband. “Oral, written, practical.”
“And group participation,” Clarabelle whispered, licking her lips.
“Inside,” Bettina said, already turning. “We begin.”
ACT I: Sensory Studies – Penelope
The kitchen was warm with cinnamon and sin.
Wolf barely got through the threshold before Penelope shoved him up against the pantry and kissed him like he was fresh from the oven. Her apron rustled. Her lips tasted like strawberry glaze. Her tongue was merciless.
“You’re going to be tasted,” she said, dragging him to the table.
She tied him to a chair with licorice ropes. Actual licorice. Twizzlers, probably. “No speaking unless you’re moaning.”
She started with a honey drizzle. His chest. His thighs. His groin.
Then came whipped cream. Then piping-hot chocolate sauce.
Then her.
She climbed onto the table, straddling his face, the scent of sugar and sex hitting like a sugar high. “You have ten minutes,” she said, lowering herself. “I’ve got a bundt cake in the oven.”
He licked. She writhed. Somewhere a timer dinged. She ignored it.
“Extra credit,” she gasped, grinding harder. “You’re doing very well.”
He sucked harder. The chair creaked.
When she came, she screamed loud enough to make the bundt cake collapse.
She slumped off him, smiling like a woman who’d just won Bake-Off and the lottery at once.
He gasped, drenched in honey and smug. “That’s one for the record books.”
She kissed him, slow and sweet, and whispered, “You’re not done.”
Clarabelle stood in the doorway, a bucket of cream in one hand, a length of rope in the other.
ACT II: Applied Manual Skills – Clarabelle
Clarabelle waited in the barn loft, hips cocked like a goddess of cream and control. A length of rope swung from her hand, and beside her sat a wooden stool, a pail, and a low bench covered in burlap and promise.
Wolf stepped in, still sticky with honey and sugar glaze, wearing nothing but Penelope’s frosting and a cocky grin.
Clarabelle arched a brow. “You’re late.”
“I was being basted.”
“Well, now you’re getting milked.”
Before he could ask if this was metaphorical or very, very literal, she grabbed his wrist and marched him to the bench.
“Strip and lie back.”
He hesitated.
She rolled her eyes. “You’re in Applied Manual Skills, dairy boy. I’m about to show you my technique.”