introducing a new series of short stories called Dirty Work:
Some jobs come with perks.
A private room.
A locked door after closing.
A client sitting a little too close for comfort.
Long hours, strong hands, and a bit too much eye contact can turn a routine appointment into something… less professional.
Dirty Work is a series about working males who discover that sometimes the job isn’t the only thing getting handled.
Because every now and then…the work gets very messy.
Disclaimer
Adults only.
This story contains explicit language, sexual themes, and unapologetically filthy situations involving anthropomorphic characters. Everyone involved is 18+ and enthusiastically consenting, but the boundaries between “professional” and “very unprofessional” get pushed… hard.
If the idea of locker-room talk, heavy musk, and workplace encounters that definitely violate company policy sounds like fun, you’re in the right place.
If not, now’s the time to clock out.
If this type of material makes your tail wag, grab your favourite bottle of lube and enjoy.
I don’t usually go to the same barber twice.
Not ‘cause I’m picky or anything — I’m not. I just don’t like patterns. Or conversations. Or having someone remember how I like it faded down the back. Something about the way barbers touch you, talk to you, breathe behind you while they’ve got sharp things in their hands… it’s too intimate.
So I bounce around. Apps. Walk-ins. Cash in hand. Forgettable. Disposable. I know it sounds eccentric; most people stick with their barber, but I’ve never been able to go back to the same place twice.
Anyway, it’s been a few weeks and I’m starting to look unkempt. You know that look Husky’s get when their floof gets a little too long and your face seems rounder than it really is? I tell him I just wanted a clean-up. Bit off the sides. Nothing fancy. Midterms are wrecking my sleep and I’ve got a calculus test in two days. So I say I needed to look like I hadn’t been gooning over vector fields for a week straight. The barber, this big grizzly bloke, chuckles at that. Says something about “tidying up the edges.”
Now I’m sitting in his chair, smock snug around my neck, the fabric already warm from whoever sat here before me and smelling faintly of a deep wolf musk. The shop is empty at this point. I was the last walk in of the day. I prefer that too. Barber shops can be rowdy when they are full of people, so it’s nice that it’s just me and this bear.
The clippers hum to life behind me and I have an Instant reaction.
I squeeze my thighs together as subtly as I can, breath catching. It’s stupid. Reflexive. But the sound alone — that low, electric vibration — is like a fuckin’ tuning fork in my spine. I feel it before he even touches me.
Focus.
f(x) = e^(–x²). Integrate from negative infinity to infinity.
√π.
That’s the answer. It always is. Stay there.
He starts high on the left side. Behind my ear. The clippers touch down and that’s it — that’s the moment. It’s not the buzz exactly. It’s the way it travels. Through my fur. Through skin. Deep into places it shouldn’t. My sheath twitches. Not visibly, not yet. But I can feel it plumping under the smock like it’s waking up from hibernation.
He works slow. Methodical. No rush. One hand steady on top of my head, the other guiding that infernal hum in neat little arcs along my skull. Each pass a godsdamn metronome for my pulse. “You’re quiet,” he rumbles, voice right near my ear. Low and easy. “Focused, yeah?” I grunt something non-committal. Can’t trust my voice.
“Studyin’?”
“Yeah.” I swallow. “Calculus.”
He chuckles. Not mean. Just amused. “Well. Let’s see if we can keep the lines cleaner than your notes, eh?”
The clipper slides down behind my ear. Along the curve of my neck. Too low. It’s not even close to my groin but my cock still pulses like it’s reacting on principle. My brain scrambles for safety.
Derivatives. Chain rule. The gradient of a surface is the vector of partials—
The vibration passes right over the base of my skull and my dick jumps. I shift in the chair, try to cross my legs tighter under the smock. It’s no good. I can already feel a bit of slick warming the tip, dampening the fur. My balls are fucking aching and he’s barely even touched me.
Still, he keeps going. Like he doesn’t notice. Like this is all perfectly normal. The clippers trace another slow path along my neck, and I feel it deep — not just in the nerves, but in the bone. The kind of buzz that doesn’t just skim the surface. It sinks. My sheath’s fat now, full and aching, cock slowly uncoiling from its slit with each pass of the blade. I can feel it pressing up against the inside of my pants, dribbling slick that’s already soaked the fur at the tip.
And the bear notices. I see it. It’s in the way his nostrils flare — subtle, sure, but there. A small pause. A change in his breathing. Then he clears his throat like he’s playing it off, but the angle of his next pass dips just a little lower. The metal guard pressing along my nape but the vibration pulses down through my groin and elicits a groan from of my chest before I can bite it back.
He hums at that. The kind of sound a predator makes when he smells blood in the water — or in this case, dog spunk in the air. “You alright there, lad?”
I nod too fast. “Mhm.”
“Just warm, innit? Happens. These capes don’t breathe well.”
He says it so calm, so casual, but I can feel his eyes in the mirror. He’s not looking at my ears. He’s looking at the way the smock’s tented over my lap, twitching with every breath. My cock’s fully out now, fat and red and pulsing under the cotton of my pants, tenting my trousers and by extension, the nylon drape covering them, pre drooling down across my thighs like a broken faucet.
The buzz stops. Not off. Just lifted. Then: a pause. Silence thick enough to chew on. He leans in slightly, one paw still resting on my shoulder. “Got yourself a bit worked up, pup?”
I stare at my own face in the mirror — flushed, ears pinned, panting through my nose like I’ve just run a fuckin’ marathon. I can’t say anything. Don’t know if I even can.
He doesn’t wait for an answer. The clippers return — low now. Right at the base of my skull, then drifting down, down, closer to my collar, then my upper back. Each pass feels heavier, slower, like he knows exactly what it’s doing to me. I’m breathing faster. My thighs are shaking. Every buzz against my fur is like a low, dirty growl in my gut.
It starts with a twitch. Deep. Involuntary. Right in the base of my spine. I try to breathe steady, but my body’s already gone traitor — thighs tensing, tail going rigid, toes curling in my trainers. The clippers drift a little lower, and that hum—that low, rumbling fucking hum—rattles through my whole pelvis like it’s wired straight into my prostate. I squeeze the chair arms hard enough my claws squeak against the vinyl.
And then—
Oh gods.Not again!
My balls clench tight, pulling up fast. My cock throbs once, hard, my red tip fully out now and flaring against the inside of my briefs, soaked in slick and desperate. I barely manage to bite back a noise—more like a whine—but it’s too late.
I start to cum.
The first spurt punches out with a full-body jolt, a sharp gasp ripped from my chest as the pressure gives way. The fabric of my pants does nothing to stop it — just redirects the blast, cum gushing hot and thick into my little black briefs, soiling them with a wet, muted splurt. Then another. And another. My cock bucks uselessly under the smock, red and leaking, each pulse worse than the last.
I can feel it running. Down my balls. Into the fur of my thighs. Pooling. My whole lower half is convulsing in tiny, shameful jerks. I can’t stop panting, chest rising and falling under the smock like I just was edging and ruined in the middle of a fuckin’ goon sesh.
The heat of it. The smell. It’s everywhere now, thick and raw and absolutely unmistakable. Sharp with musk, that distinct doggy stink of virile, musky husky cum. It swells up under the smock like fog, bleeding into the air, creeping under the door. If someone walked in now, they’d know before they saw a thing. The room reeks. There’s no hiding it. Just the sound of my ragged breath and the drip-drip of hot spunk puddling in my lap.
He’s right behind me. Still. Watching me spunk myself in his chair without a single stroke. Just clippers and shame. I can’t move. I can barely breathe. My pants are sodden. My fur is sticky. I’m shaking in the aftershocks.
A long moment passes. I’m still slumped in the chair, balls glued to my thighs, cock softening under the weight of my own fucking mess. The smell is unbearable now — sharp and thick, heavy with musk and heat, clinging to the smock, the chair, the fur on my belly. It’s me. It’s all me.
And I know what’s coming.
I’ve seen it before — every time. The barber flinching, stepping back. A towel thrown at my lap. A muttered “pervert,” or worse, a look like I’ve pissed myself and ruined their day. Some pretend not to see it. One laughed, nervous and mean. A couple handed me the receipt without a word.
I stopped going back. To any of them.
That’s the truth of it. Not scheduling. Not convenience. Not the price. It’s not eccentricity. I just can’t get a fucking haircut without blowing my load in my pants like some teenager in heat. It’s wired into me now. Pavlovian. Clippers go bzzzz, and my dick goes fuck yes. Doesn’t matter if I’m thinking about maths, my thesis, fucking godsdamn traffic patterns — if someone’s trimming my fur, I’m leaking.
I’ve already mapped out a new radius. Ten kilometres. Minimum. I have to travel at least ten kilometres before I find someone who hasn’t met the freaky pup who spunk’s himself getting his haircut. No repeats No explanations. No looking back. That’s the real reason I don’t have a regular barber.
And now is the worse part… I have to look at him. The mirror’s right there. But when I finally lift my eyes to it, expecting the usual — the flinch, the disgust, the shift away — what I see instead is… different.
The bear’s just standing behind me.
Still.
Expression unreadable.
His eyes flick from the tented smock to the back of my head, then settle on my face in the mirror. He studies me. Not in disgust. Not like a small business owner with a problem to solve. Just… watching. Like he’s figuring something out. Then, without a word, he reaches up —
— and turns the photo on the shelf face-down.
Wife. Cubs.
Gone in a blink.
I freeze. My ears are hot all over again, tail limp with confusion. He steps around the chair, thick fingers brushing the edge of the counter, and walks — slow, deliberate — to the front of the shop. His paw reaches out. Grabs the deadbolt.
Click.
Then the latch on the blinds.
Rattle.
Thump.
Half-closed now. Shadows settling in.
He turns back, unhurried. Reaches down. Unzips. That sound slices through me. Too loud in the quiet. When he speaks again, his voice is low. Amused. “You’re a freaky little pup, aren’t you?”
I don’t answer. Can’t. My heart’s hammering. He steps closer. One hand still at his crotch, the other gesturing loosely to the soaked smock, the stained chair, the air thick with the reek of cum. “Blowin’ your load like that in my shop,” he says, tone like he’s talking about a naughty schoolboy pissing the bed. “Didn’t even touch yourself.”
Another step. I can smell him now, over my own mess. Deeper. Muskier. Dominant. “Why don’t you do us both a favour,” he murmurs, “and bend over my chair…” My throat tightens. “…so I can bury this cock in your cute little bum.”
For a second, I honestly think I misheard him. My ears are ringing. My heart’s pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. No one’s shouting. No one’s telling me to get the fuck out. No threatening me with the very clippers that instigated this predicament in the first place. No … disgust.
I swallow. My hands shake as I reach for my zip. For a second I just stare at myself in the mirror like I’ve finally snapped. This isn’t happening. It can’t be. Barbers don’t say shit like that. Married bears don’t lock up shop and unzip for uni pups who’ve just jizzed themselves in a chair. I’m waiting for the punchline. For him to laugh. For the door to open and someone to tell me I’ve gone mental.
But nothing happens. He doesn’t throw me out. And the relief hits so hard it almost makes me dizzy. My paws move before I can stop them.
I should stop. Gods know I should. But my body’s already halfway gone — still buzzing, still humming like the clippers are inside me instead of switched off, laying peacefully on the counter like they had shit all to do with my current state. That vibration’s stuck in my bones, in my gut, in my hole, and I need something there now. Don’t know why. Don’t care why.
Zip down. Trousers pushed low. My pants cling for a second — wet, tacky, humiliating — before peeling away with a quiet, obscene sound. Cool air washes over my bum and I shudder, tail lifting on instinct, exposing myself without being told twice.
Pink. Bare. Open to the room.
I bend over the chair like he said, paws gripping the armrests, ears burning so hot they feel like they’re glowing. I can still feel the ghost of the clippers buzzing through me, like my nerves never got the memo that it’s over. That hum’s still there, deep in my gut, making my hole throb like it’s got a pulse of its own.
I don’t know why I need it. I just know I do.
Behind me, the bear steps closer. Slow. Heavy. I feel his presence loom, blocking the mirror, trapping me in my own posture. Then—
Hawk.
The sound is loud in the quiet shop. I gasp as something warm and wet splats directly onto my hole, slick and nasty, dripping down over sensitive pink flesh. My arse clenches hard around nothing, a sharp, needy whine slipping out of me before I can bite it back.
“Oh fuck —”
He laughs softly. “Gods, look at you,” he murmurs, amused and thick with approval. “Spittin’ on you and you’re already twitchin’.”
I feel his thumb smear it — slow, deliberate — spreading his spit over me, making it obscene, messy, undeniable. My hips jerk back on reflex, hole fluttering like it’s trying to swallow something that isn’t there yet. And then his fat finger breaches me.
“Mm,” he hums. “Not too loose.” Another slow drag, just enough to make me gasp. “Not too tight either.”
My face feels like it’s on fire. I can’t look at the mirror anymore. Can’t stand seeing myself like this — arse out, fur matted with cum, hole shining with spit, begging without saying a word.
“You’ve been fucked before, bruv?” he asks casually, like he’s asking about my course load. My body answers for me. I clench. Tail lifts higher. A soft, broken sound slips out of my throat. He chuckles, satisfied. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Thought so.”
The bear lines himself up behind me, one paw gripping the base of his thick shaft — gods, it’s fat — and the other bracing against my lower back. I can feel the heat of him before I feel the pressure. He’s not rushing. Just letting me know he’s there. Letting my body feel the size of what’s coming. “Hold still,” he rumbles. “Don’t wanna split ya just yet.”
Just yet?
I clench around nothing, panting, tail lifted high like a bitch in heat. The spit’s gone cold now, but the throb in my hole’s only getting worse. It’s like my guts are begging for it — for anything to fill me, stretch me, breed me stupid.
Then he presses in. Not hard. Just enough. The head of his cock nudges against my hole — thick, flat, not built for slick entries. I flinch. My ring tightens. He doesn’t push. Just waits. “You’re tight,” he murmurs. “Bet you’re used to those tapered canine dicks, eh? Ever been fucked by a blunt ursine cock?”
I whimper. My voice is gone. My whole body’s buzzing again, every nerve raw and primed, but I shake my head no, letting him know he is the first bear to fill my hole. He leans in, chest heavy against my back. His muzzle by my ear now. I can smell his breath — musk, coffee, fuckin’ authority.
“No knot here, pup,” he says, voice low and filthy. “But I’ll ruin that hole all the same.” He spits again. Right on it. Lets it drip. Then he pushes.
Oh fuck.
The pressure’s unreal — like trying to take a thick candle up my bum. My hole stretches, burns, fights. He grunts. I gasp, grip the armrests, claws scraping vinyl. It’s too much. Not enough. Too fast. Too slow.
“Breathe,” he growls. “Tight fuckin’ grip on ya.”
My eyes roll. I try to breathe. Gods. I do love a knot. Miss the pop. The stretch. But this? This hits different.
He grinds forward, centimetre by fucking centimetre, splitting me open around that fat ursine girth. I feel every godsdamn ridge. Every vein. My ring fights and flutters, drooling slick down my thighs as my hole slowly — achingly — gives way.
“Yeah,” he groans. “There you go. Good little cocksleeve.”
I whimper. He’s barely halfway in. My tongue’s out. Drooling. Whole body trembling like I’m riding the edge again. I can feel the fabric of the smock still clinging to my chest, drenched in my first mess. This one’s gonna be worse.
He gives a little rock forward — sharp. I yelp.“That hit your spot?” I nod. Or try to. My face is pressed against the chair now, cheek smushed flat, mouth open and panting. “Yeah, it fuckin’ did.”
Then he grabs my hips. Slams the rest in.
I scream.
Not in pain. Not exactly. It’s just too much. Too fucking deep. His fat cock buries itself to the hilt, his furry balls slapping wet against my once spent sack, and all the air leaves my lungs like I’ve been punched. My hole clamps down. Clenches. Tries to milk him already.
And he laughs. “Fuckin’ slag. Already grippin’ like you wanna keep me.” He doesn’t pull back. Just grinds inside me — long, slow rotations of his hips like he’s stirring up my insides.
“You missin’ that knot, pup?” he grunts. “Bet you are. But this?” He gives a short, sharp thrust. “This cock’ll fuckin’ stay. Won’t pop out. I’ll stay buried in that tight fuckin’ arse ‘til you forget your own name.”
I moan. Loud. My cock, somehow, is hard again. Slick, soaked, humping, leaking onto the chair like it’s got no dignity left. My balls ache. Beg. Twitch with every grind of his hips. With every slap of his heavy sack against mine.
Then he starts to move. Slow thrusts at first. Cruel. Deep. Letting me feel everything. His fat cock drags over my prostate with every pass, each one jolting up my spine like an electric shock.
“Fuck, you take cock like a champ,” he huffs. “Bet your tutors don’t know you’re a lil’ fuckhole in barber chairs.”
I moan again. My voice is gone. Just gasps now. Whines. The wet slap of balls on fur and the squelch of a sloppy, stretched-out hole. He picks up pace. Hips slamming now. Heavy. Punishing. The chair’s creaking under us. My body rocks forward with every thrust. My second load’s building fast — too fast — and I can’t stop it.
“Gonna cum again?” he grunts. “Yeah you are. Fuckin’ filthy pup. Gonna bust your nuts while I breed that hole.”
“Please,” I gasp. “Fuck. Please.”
He snarls. Slams in deeper. His paw reaches around, grips my cock.
“Still leakin’,” he laughs. “Don’t even need to stroke you.” He doesn’t. Just holds it — squeezing the base while he fucks the rest of me raw. And then it hits.
I scream. Arch. Cum again. Harder. Messier. A full-body eruption. My cock pulses, shoots, dribbles, while my hole clamps down like it’s trying to keep him in.
And that sets him off. He growls — low, guttural — and slams home. One last brutal thrust.
And cums.
Hot. Heavy. Deep.
I feel it.
The bear floods me like a busted pipe, thick spurts of cum slamming deep and staying there. I feel it gush — heavy, molten — coating my guts, pushing up against every squeeze of my hole like I’m trying to wring him dry. It leaks out around the base, hot and sticky, sliding down my thighs in messy, shameful trails. He doesn’t pull out. Just stays there. Buried. Breathing hard. Both paws gripping my hips like he’s staking a fuckin’ claim.
I’m twitching. Leaking. Used up and soaked. The shop’s gone quiet again, save for our panting. The air’s thick with the stench of sweat, cum, and fur. Then he shifts — just enough to make my wrecked hole clench again — and mutters, rough and smug:
“Hair grows fast, pup.”
I don’t move.
“Best to keep it tidy. Every three weeks or so.”
His paw slides up my back, firm. Possessive.
“I’ll hold the last slot of the day open for you…” He leans in, breath hot in my ear, cock still twitching inside me.
“…if you keep your slot open for me.”
I nod as my knot continues to pulse, my cock shooting the vestiges of its load into his smock and onto his chair. And a smile creeps onto my lips...
Looks like I found a permanent barber.