The Truth About Wolfie and Little Red - Sex Stories

The Truth About Wolfie and Little Red

... bravado. I pressed in enough to have my nostrils between her butt cheeks. And then . . . then . . . I did it! I sniffed! I sniffed Little Red Riding Hood’s butt! And I can report that Little Red Riding Hood's butt smells so very sweet and so very good! I sniffed and sniffed and savored the sweet and musky scent. It filled my entire being and I sniffed her butt and then I sniffed her butt and I couldn’t get enough. When twenty minutes was up I almost couldn't pull my face out of her ass, but knowing we would be turning to the lumberjacks page in a few seconds and not wanting to make her mad, I did as required and she told me I had proven myself to be a wolf of integrity. I felt proud. Then, she told me I could have a few more minutes and drool dropped from my tongue. Once again I pressed my nose to her pantied bottom and I sniffed and sniffed and inhaled and savored the most beautiful scent of the most beautiful flower; her wonderful little rosebud. It filled me completely and I loved every bit of it! Suddenly, the door broke down and before I knew what was happening, the lumberjacks burst in. “No! No!” I barked. “Not yet! Not yet. Go back a few pages! This is just too good here!” Instead, they laughed. “He’s sniffing her ass! That wolf is a pervert! He’s smelling her ass!” they laughed again. “Are you okay Missy?” Missy twisted herself to a sitting position and was brushing her Summer dress. “Um . . . yeah . . . uh . . . we were just . . . ummmm. It's not what you think.” She ...

... twirled her hair. “Oh never mind.” The lumberjacks asked if I had f***ed her and-- “NO!” she blurted before calming. “I mean, no he didn't f***e anything. In fact . . .” she mused while glancing at me and then away, “it was all okay. Yes, quite okay. I mean, for as weird as it is. It's all okay because he's a wolfie and they're all buttsniffers. He’s harmless. Let him go.” They demanded I leave at once and I sheepishly (interesting word for a wolfie don’t ya think?) slinked away, my tail between my legs. The lumberjacks laughed and ridiculed and called me names like buttface and buttsniffer and one even called me a fartface. Their humiliation was all too familiar. I carried away with me one antidote to the lumberjacks' derision and that antidote was this: For the next hour, I could still smell Missy’s cute little rear-end! That scent was on my face and that trumped everything! Missy waived at me and laughed, “Come back soon.&#034 I wasn't going to tell of Missy to my traitorous friend but I guess I am a weak wolfie because I spilled the entire story three days later. And, once again he betrayed me to the entire den and once again I shrunk into seclusion. I mean, I have no problem admitting that I am a buttsniffer but I am completely fragmented by the thought of telling others that I sniffed that girl’s butt and that I loved it more than my own kind--more than anything! I admitted to my friend that between smelling girl-ass or sniffing my own kind, there is just no comparison ...