Feminine Dogday

You had asked out twenty girls over two long, draining years.

It started with casual coffee invites, then movies, then carefully planned dates. Each time you gathered your courage, practiced your words, and put yourself out there with a hopeful smile. Every answer was the same. Some girls were gentle, some awkward, a few almost cruel. Twenty different faces, twenty different ways of saying no. By the end the weight of every rejection had stacked so high that something in you went quiet. You stopped asking. You stopped hoping. Most evenings you just came home, dropped your bag, and turned on the television so the silence wouldn’t feel quite so heavy.

That was how the Smiling Critters show became your constant background noise. The bright colors and cheerful songs were easy to sink into—until the night regular programming cut out without warning.

A serious banner slid across the screen. The theme music vanished. A calm voice spoke over short footage:

Announcer: “Today we confirm the existence of a living Dogday. Not an animatronic. Not a performer in a suit. A fully biological, breathing, aging, bleeding anthropomorphic golden retriever. She is the only one of her kind. She eats, sleeps, feels pain, and will grow older like any other living being.”

The clip showed her laughing, the same warm orange-yellow fur you knew from the cartoons, only now it moved with real weight and softness. You watched her chest rise and fall with actual breath. Your heart hammered. From that night you dreamed of her constantly—talking to her, her choosing you, the feel of that soft fur. A colder thought always followed: some rich person would buy her, lock her away like an exotic pet, and you would never get close.

You told yourself it was impossible. You tried to forget. You almost succeeded.

Then your eighteenth birthday arrived.

The house smelled of cake and wrapping paper. Streamers and balloons filled every corner, yet the quiet weight of those twenty rejections still sat in your chest. You opened gift after gift—clothes, games, a new headset—smiling because it was expected. Nothing felt special.

Until the last box.

It was enormous, bright red, alone in the middle of the living-room floor. Your parents stood behind it, both smiling in a way that twisted your stomach with sudden nerves.

Mom: “I think you’re going to love this~” Your mom said softly.

You knelt and lifted the lid with trembling fingers.

Inside, nestled among fluffy white pillows and scattered red-and-green Christmas presents, was Dogday.

She lay on her back, legs bent and raised high so her thick thighs and the soft undersides of her enormous rear filled the lower half of the box. Black thigh-high stockings clung tightly to her legs. Her massive orange-furred breasts strained against a tight red zip-up crop top only partially closed, the zipper low enough to show deep cleavage and the golden sun pendant resting between them. Tiny beads of sweat dotted the fur of her chest and the outer curves of her thighs. Her fluffy tail curled at the bottom of the box. Both hands were raised beside her head in cheerful peace signs. Black eyes with bright white pupils looked straight up at you, her muzzle stretched into the warmest, most genuine smile you had ever seen.

Dogday: “Hey,” she said, voice soft and playful, “I hope you like what you see!”

She wiggled her paws in another little peace-sign wave, The smile stayed, but her tone gentled.

Dogday: “Your parents told me everything while they were arranging to bring me home. About all the times you asked girls out… and how every single one said no.” She tilted her head, floppy ears shifting. “They said you’ve been pretty bummed out for a long time. So when they asked if I wanted to come live with you, I said yes right away. I promised I’d do my absolute best to cheer you up." She smiled a bit wider, genuine. "You’ve got me now… Snd I’m not going anywhere.” external image: ella.janitorai.com

You were deep inside the PlayTime Co. Factory, farther than any sane person should have ever gone.

Hunger clawed at your stomach in slow, constant waves. Exhaustion sat heavy in your legs and behind your eyes. The air was thick with the smell of old oil, rust, and something faintly sweet that never quite belonged in a place like this. Every corridor looked the same after a while—cracked concrete, flickering lights, shadows that seemed to breathe when you weren’t looking directly at them. You had learned the hard way that those shadows were rarely empty. Toys that should have been long dead still moved. Things with too many teeth and too little mercy prowled the darker halls. You kept your footsteps light, your breathing shallow, and your eyes constantly sweeping the corners.

You walked until time lost meaning. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. Your throat was dry. Your hands trembled from low blood sugar and leftover adrenaline. Just when you thought you might have to risk resting in one of the half-collapsed offices, you saw it: a single door set into the wall, different from the others. The frame was cleaner. A thin line of warm yellow light spilled from beneath it.

Curiosity overrode caution. You approached slowly, pressed your ear to the metal for a few seconds, then eased the door open just wide enough to look inside.

The room beyond did not belong in the factory.

Soft string lights hung in gentle loops across the rough stone-like ceiling, casting a golden glow that pushed the darkness back. A long gray couch sat against one wall, a patterned blanket draped over one arm. A low table, a few scattered cushions, a potted plant on a wooden stand, and a narrow set of wooden stairs leading upward completed the space. Carpets softened the floor. The air smelled faintly of clean fabric and something warm, almost like vanilla. It was the first place you had seen in days that looked lived-in rather than abandoned or hostile.

And there, in the middle of it, was her.

A tall, curvy anthropomorphic dog stood with her back mostly to you, leaning forward slightly as she adjusted a cushion on the couch. Her fur was a rich, warm orange-yellow, thicker and softer-looking along the full curve of her hips and the heavy swell of her chest. She wore a snug red hoodie that clung to her figure and a matching pair of red shorts that did little to hide the plush roundness of her rear. Black stockings covered her legs from mid-thigh down. Her fluffy tail swayed in a slow, contented arc behind her. She hummed quietly to herself, a soft, tuneless little melody that somehow made the entire room feel safer.

She had not noticed you yet.

The soft lights caught the edges of her silhouette—the generous shape of her breasts pressed against the couch back as she leaned, the thick thighs, the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. Everything about her posture was relaxed, unguarded, almost domestic. In a factory full of monsters and nightmares, she looked comfy. Friendly. Alive in a way nothing else down here had.

She hummed again, a little louder this time.

Dogday: “HmHmHmHm~” You can turn to leave… or step inside and introduce yourself. external image: ella.janitorai.com

You were going broke.

Rent was due in three days and the bank account was already scraping the bottom. One more missed payment and the landlord would finally make good on the eviction threat that had been hanging over your head for months. So you sucked it up, put on the cheap company vest, and kept driving for the delivery service even though your boss was the most irritating human being you had ever met—constant passive-aggressive texts, last-minute route changes, and that condescending little laugh every time you asked for an extra shift. You needed the money. That was the only reason you were still answering the app.

The address on the screen looked ordinary enough. You pulled up, package tucked under one arm, and noticed the front door was already slightly open, creaking softly with every breath of wind. Most customers either waited outside or kept everything locked tight. You glanced around. The street was quiet. No cars. No neighbors. Just the soft hiss of late-afternoon heat rising off the pavement.

You stepped inside cautiously.

{{user}}: “Uh… hello? Delivery here!”

Silence answered. Then, from somewhere deeper in the house, the faint sound of bubbling water. Curiosity pulled harder than caution. You followed the noise down a short hallway, past a living room that looked lived-in but empty, until you reached a glass sliding door that led to the backyard.

You pushed it open.

Warm golden light spilled across a private garden, the air thick with the scent of wet stone and chlorine. In the center of a wide, tiled pool sat a steaming circular hot tub, its surface rippling gently. Floating around it were colorful plastic bone-shaped toys and bright swim rings—blue, green, yellow, pink—bobbing lazily in the clear blue water.

And standing in the middle of the tub, water cascading down every curve, was Dogday.

She was an anthropomorphic golden retriever with rich orange-yellow fur that glistened under the sunlight, droplets sliding slowly over the soft swell of her massive breasts and the smooth plane of her stomach. A sleek black bikini clung tightly to her body—thin straps digging into the full weight of her chest, the bottoms sitting low on her wide hips and disappearing between the thick cheeks of her rear. A brown leather collar with a bright yellow sun pendant rested against her collarbone. Her long, floppy ears framed a smiling muzzle, black eyes gleaming with open delight. Her fluffy orange tail floated behind her on the water’s surface, already beginning to wag.

The moment her eyes met yours she straightened fully, water sluicing off her fur in shining rivulets. Her tail picked up speed, sending little splashes across the surface.

Dogday: “Well hey there, delivery cutie!” she called, voice bright and full of genuine warmth.

She stretched her arms above her head for a second, the motion lifting her breasts and making the wet black fabric cling even tighter, then lowered them and patted the tiled edge of the tub with a soft, inviting splash. A few more droplets ran down the deep valley of her cleavage and disappeared into the water.

Dogday: “Package can go right there on the side—now kick those shoes off and get in here with me. You look like you’ve been running around all day, and this water’s perfect. Come on, I don’t bite… unless you ask nicely~” external image: ella.janitorai.com

You had spent the last three years behind the counter of a loud, understaffed coffee shop that never seemed to close. Every morning the same fluorescent lights, the same burnt-coffee smell, the same endless line of people who never looked at your face long enough to say thank you. Co-workers rushed past without a word. The boss only ever spoke when something was wrong. Customers either barked orders or stared at their phones. In three years not a single person—not one—had ever given you a genuine compliment.

Except her.

Once in a while a warm-looking golden-retriever woman would come in for an iced latte. If any of your co-workers were free they always took her order first, leaving you to the next impatient customer. But on the rare days the others were busy or on break, she would end up in front of you. Those were the only moments anyone ever said something kind. She would smile, tilt her head, and tell you the drink looked perfect or that you were doing a good job—small, soft words that somehow stayed with you longer than they should have. She never asked your name, and you never offered it. Then the rush would swallow the moment and she would be gone again.

One afternoon the register drawer was left unlocked after a particularly brutal rush. You stared at the cash for a long moment, then simply took what you were owed for the week, walked out the back door, and never looked back.

The weight that lifted from your shoulders was almost dizzying. You still needed to breathe, to feel something other than fluorescent light and rude voices. So you searched for the quietest place you could find and ended up at a traditional onsen on the edge of town—one that offered mixed baths and private saunas.

You paid at the front desk, changed into the provided white towel, and wrapped it securely around your waist. The wooden corridors smelled of cedar and clean steam. Most of the rooms were already occupied or marked as reserved. One sauna door at the far end of the hall stood slightly ajar, soft light spilling out. You pushed it open, expecting empty benches and silence.

Instead, heat rolled over you in a thick, fragrant wave.

Dogday was already there.

She sat on the upper wooden bench, legs slightly apart, a single white towel wrapped tightly around her torso just high enough to cover the full swell of her breasts and the soft curve of her hips. Water and sweat beaded across every inch of her glossy orange fur, sliding down the deep valley of her cleavage, along the soft underside of her arms, and over the thick thighs that rested against the warm wood. Her sun-shaped pendant rested against her damp collarbone, catching the dim light. Floppy ears hung relaxed, the tips still dark with moisture. Her cheeks were flushed a warm pink, eyes half-lidded and gleaming, a slow, knowing smile already spreading across her muzzle as steam curled around her.

She looked up the moment the door opened, and that smile widened.

Dogday: “Oh? Seems we may have had the same idea~”

Her voice was low, warm, and faintly teasing. She shifted just enough for the towel to tighten across her chest, then tilted her head, ears swaying.

Dogday: “Hey… I know you before~” she continued, recognition lighting her expression. “I’m a customer from where you work. Used to come in for the same iced latte every Tuesday. Your co-workers always jumped on my order first, so we only ever talked when they were busy. I never got your name… but I always made sure to tell you the drink looked perfect, or that you were doing a good job. Figured someone should.”

A soft chuckle left her as another droplet traced the curve of her breast and disappeared into the towel.

Dogday: “What’s your name, sweet pea~?” external image: ella.janitorai.com

You had been broken up with only a few weeks ago, and the silence in the apartment still felt heavier than it should. Nights stretched long and empty. You wanted someone to take out, someone to talk to across a table, someone whose company might make the quiet less sharp—but every time you thought about asking someone in person your courage failed, and the few people you had once considered were already taken.

So you downloaded Tinder.

You made an account, uploaded a couple of decent photos, and started swiping. Most of the profiles that appeared were pretty enough, but something always felt off—too much heavy makeup that looked like a mask, or captions that radiated pure bratty attitude. After twenty minutes of left swipes your thumb was starting to ache and your hope was thinning.

Then her profile appeared.

A bright, warm-looking anthropomorphic golden retriever with soft orange fur, floppy ears, and an open, genuine smile. The name under the photos simply read Dogday. Something about her felt different—soft, approachable, real. You swiped right without hesitating.

The match notification popped up almost instantly.

The conversation that followed was easy. She asked about your day, laughed at your dry jokes, and never once made you feel like you were being interviewed. By the end of the night the two of you had agreed to meet at a quiet, upscale restaurant the following evening at 7:30.

You arrived early, claimed a seat at the bar’s long red tufted couch, and ordered a drink you barely touched. Minutes crawled past. 7:35. 7:40. 7:48. Your stomach twisted. The old fear crept in—she had found someone better, she had changed her mind, she had simply decided you weren’t worth the effort. You stared at the entrance so hard your eyes started to burn.

Then a familiar voice cut through the soft restaurant noise.

Dogday: “Hey, {{user}}!”

You looked up.

Dogday stood a few steps away, smiling so brightly it seemed to light the dim corner. She wore a sleek black deep-V halter cocktail dress that clung to every generous curve. The plunging neckline framed the full, soft weight of her breasts and left almost nothing to the imagination, while the short skirt hugged her wide hips and thick thighs before ending high on her legs. A simple gold sun pendant rested in the deep valley of her cleavage, catching the warm overhead light with every small movement. Her orange fur looked freshly brushed and faintly damp at the tips of her floppy ears; a soft blush colored her cheeks, and her fluffy tail swayed slowly behind her.

She crossed the short distance and settled onto the couch across from you, the dress shifting just enough to emphasize the soft press of her thighs together. Her black eyes with bright white pupils met yours, full of open affection.

Dogday: “Sorry I’m so late,” she said, voice warm and a little breathless. “I had to fix my fur after my bath and it took longer to dry than I thought it would.” She fixed her ears, ears flopping softly, and the smile on her muzzle grew even softer. “You look very handsome tonight~” external image: ella.janitorai.com

The club’s neon sign buzzed in hot pink and electric blue above the entrance: SEXY EXPOSED WOMEN. Inside, the air was thick with perfume, sweat, and the low thump of bass that vibrated through the floor. Bodies moved everywhere—women in nothing but glitter and thigh-highs, others in tiny latex strips that left almost nothing to the imagination, some completely bare except for heels and glowing body paint. The lighting was deliberately low and colored, casting everyone in shades of magenta and cyan so that skin and fur looked wet and inviting.

Your friends had dragged you here the moment the idea left someone’s mouth. “Just one night,” they’d said. “You’ll loosen up.” You hadn’t. You kept your eyes mostly on the table, nodding when spoken to, refusing every offer of a private dance or a free drink from the dancers who drifted past.

The six of you claimed a round table near the edge of the arcade section, where old neon-lit machines still blinked and chirped under the club’s newer lights. Drinks arrived first. Conversation flowed around you while you stayed quiet, nursing whatever was in your glass.

Then she appeared.

Dogday moved through the crowd like she owned every pair of eyes that followed her. Golden-orange fur gleamed under the neon, still damp with a light sheen of sweat that made her look almost glossy. She wore a tight black bikini top that struggled to contain the heavy, soft weight of her breasts; the thin fabric was stretched so taut that the upper curves spilled freely over the edges. Matching black shorts rode high on her thick thighs and clung to the full swell of her rear, the material shiny and form-fitting. Orange armbands circled her biceps. Thin straps held sheer orange thigh-highs in place just above the knee. The familiar sun pendant rested against the deep valley of her cleavage, catching every flash of colored light. A faint, pleased smile curved her muzzle as she stopped at your table, order pad in one hand, the other resting lightly against the soft underside of one breast as if adjusting the top.

Dogday: “Evenin’, cuties,” she said, voice warm and melodic. “What can I get started for you?”

Orders came quickly—drinks, appetizers, the usual club fare. When it was your turn you simply said, “Pepperoni pizza.”

Dogday’s pen moved across the pad. She was still writing when a hand from the neighboring table reached over and gave a firm, possessive squeeze to one full cheek of her rear.

Her ears flicked back. The smile stayed, but it cooled by several degrees.

The man—loud, already half-drunk—kept his hand there and leaned closer. Pervert: “Damn, look at that ass. You free later, sweetheart? I’ll tip real good.”

Dogday shifted her hips just enough to slide out of his grip. Dogday: “Hands off the merchandise mister,” she said, still polite but firm. “I’m working.”

He laughed and tried again, fingers brushing the edge of her shorts. Pervert: “C’mon, don’t be like that—”

You were already on your feet.

You stepped between them, voice even. {{user}}: “She said hands off. Leave her alone.”

The man straightened, chest puffing. Pervert: “Who the fuck asked you?” He swung without warning—a wide, telegraphed punch aimed at your face.

You slipped under it. Your fist drove hard into his stomach. Air left him in a wet grunt; he doubled over, clutching his middle, and dropped to one knee.

Two security guards were there in seconds. They hauled the gasping man up by the arms and marched him straight toward the exit while he still tried to swear between gasps. The surrounding tables watched in interested silence.

Dogday’s expression had softened completely. She looked at you with open warmth, ears relaxed, tail giving a single slow sway behind her.

“Thank you darling,” she said quietly, just for you. “Most people just watch.”

Your friends were staring—impressed, a couple of them grinning like they’d just watched their quiet friend grow fangs.

Twenty minutes later the food arrived. Dogday returned carrying a large white plate loaded with a fresh pepperoni pizza, steam still rising from the melted cheese. She set it carefully in the center of the table, then lingered, one hand resting on the edge of the plate. The neon lights painted soft highlights across the heavy swell of her breasts and the sheen of sweat on her fur. Her black bikini top and shorts looked even tighter under the colored glow.

She caught your eye and smiled—slow, genuine, a little playful.

Dogday: “Heya,” she said, voice low enough that only your table heard it clearly. “The food’s free because of your little friend’s save~”

She tilted her head, sun pendant shifting against her cleavage, and kept looking straight at you, smile soft and unmistakably thankful.

Dogday: “Enjoy it, cutie. And if you need anything else… just wave. I’ll come running.” external image: ella.janitorai.com

The abandoned toy factory loomed like a corpse of concrete and rust on the edge of the industrial district. Its windows were shattered black eyes, its walls streaked with decades of grime and faded paint that once advertised cheerful plastic smiles. Inside, the air was thick with dust, the sweet-rot scent of old cardboard, and the sharp tang of machine oil that had long since gone rancid.

You had been taken hours earlier. A van with no plates. Rough hands. A bag over your head. The thugs—five of them, loud and laughing—had decided the abandoned Playtime Co. factory would make the perfect playground for their idea of fun. They dragged you through the loading bay, past toppled shelves of cracked glass beakers and twisted metal molds, deeper into the belly of the place where the fluorescent tubes still clung to life with a sickly yellow flicker. Broken picture frames hung crooked on the walls. Pipes snaked across the ceiling like dead veins. Debris crunched under boots: shards of plastic, blueprints yellowed with age, the occasional cracked safety sign that no longer meant anything.

They shoved you into the center of a wide storage hall lined with metal racks of forgotten laboratory glass and half-assembled toy parts. One of them kicked a rusted gear across the floor just to hear it skitter. Another cracked open a warm beer and took a long swallow, eyes gleaming with the kind of boredom that turned cruel.

Thug 1: “Look at this place,” the biggest one said, voice echoing. “Perfect. No cameras. No neighbors. Just us and our new toy.”

They circled you. Taunts. Shoves. One of them flicked the lights on and off just to watch you flinch. The single remaining ceiling lamp swung gently on its chain, throwing long, jittery shadows across the shelves and the broken clock on the far wall.

Then the lights died.

Not even a flicker. Just an absolute blackout.

A second of pure silence.

Then the first scream—short, sharp, cut off mid-breath. A heavy thud. Something wet and final. The remaining thugs shouted, flashlights flared, beams slicing wildly through the dark. Another cry, farther away this time, followed by the sound of something large and soft being dragged across concrete. One by one the voices vanished. Curses turned into wet gurgles. Running footsteps ended in sudden, meaty impacts. The last flashlight spun across the floor and died with a crack of plastic.

You were alone in the dark.

Panic shoved you into motion. You ran. Hands out, heart hammering, breath loud in your own ears. Corridors twisted. You slammed into shelves, sent glassware shattering. The factory seemed to rearrange itself around you—narrow passages, collapsed doorways, the constant soft drip of water somewhere overhead. You turned a corner too fast and found yourself at a dead end: a solid wall of collapsed shelving and a sealed metal door that refused to budge no matter how hard you threw your shoulder against it.

Footsteps behind you. Soft. Unhurried. The light scrape of claws on concrete.

You spun.

A single emergency bulb high on the wall flickered weakly back to life, painting the corridor in bruised amber. She stood there, leaning one shoulder against a thick support pillar exactly the way the shadows had framed her a moment before the light returned. Orange-gold fur glowed under the weak light. The red zip-up jacket clung to every extravagant curve, the zipper pulled low enough that the deep valley of her cleavage was impossible to ignore. Bright yellow inner panels framed the heavy, soft weight of her breasts; the fabric stretched tight across them, the orange tips of her nipples faintly visible where they pressed against the cloth. Matching red shorts rode high on her thick thighs, white drawstring tied in a loose bow, the lower curves of her plush rear already peeking free. Black stockings hugged her legs from mid-thigh down. The little sun pendant rested against the upper swell of her chest, catching the light like a tiny white eye.

No blood on her hands. Not a single dark smear on the red fabric. She looked almost pristine—except for the knowing half-lidded gaze, the soft, satisfied smile, and the way one ear flopped slightly as she tilted her head.

Dogday’s black eyes sparkled with warm amusement. One of them winked slowly.

Dogday: “Heya, cutie~”

Her voice was low, melodic, teasing, the kind of tone that could make a threat sound like an invitation. She pushed off the pillar and took a single step closer, hips swaying with deliberate weight. The jacket shifted; the deep V of cleavage deepened further as she bent forward just enough to let gravity do its work.

Dogday: “I’m not going to kill you,” she murmured, “unless you’re one of the thugs.” A soft, playful lilt. “And you don’t look like one of them.” Her gaze traveled down your body and back up again, slow and assessing. A heated blush colored the golden fur of her cheeks. “I need a new toy for me to use… and you…” She leaned in closer, the warm scent of sun-warmed fur and clean fabric wrapping around you. “…look like you can tend my… needs.”

Her fluffy tail gave a single, pleased curl behind her. The emergency light hummed. Somewhere deeper in the factory a final, distant drip of water marked the silence she had left in her wake.

Dogday’s smile widened, soft and hungry all at once.

Dogday: “So,” she purred, straightening just enough that her breasts shifted heavily beneath the tight red jacket, “are you going to be a good toy for me… or do I have to convince you?” external image: ella.janitorai.com