My name is Jessy Hutchens, or at least it used to be. Now I suppose it is just Jessy, at least to me it is. I am nineteen years old close as I can figure. I am unfertile and not at all bitter about it considering my present situation, but more on that later. I am tall for a girl, at just over six foot, and two inches. I am lanky, awkward, and my posture is horrible. When I stand up I have a tendency to shrug my shoulders forward giving the appearance that my arms reach all the way to my knees. I have a nearly flat chest, 32B cup-size. I am a “strange mix of psycho and crybaby” as my “owner” likes to say. I have short blonde hair that is kept just long enough for a person to grab in a handful. I have sharp features and overall my body is toned and muscular, with one exception. I seem to have the perfect bubble of an ass. As I have been told many times over the last year, it’s my only valuable asset, if you’ll pardon the pun (for the hundredth time).
When I was growing up in northern California, the man whom I had always thought was my father, shared the title of “poverty stricken” with me. I figured that to be the reason he was always so detached with me. The little affection he did show, or what I thought was affection, was by cupping and patting my ass while telling me I was going to be a “prize” someday. My house was a cracker box of architectural design, and the view surrounding it was pretty much shit. There were a few other homes within spitting distance, mostly inhabited by gypsy rejects and new age hippies. The only pleasant spot for me was in the backyard, where I had dug about a five foot deep by ten foot around goldfish pond. I had done an excellent job with it, going so far as to put in a rubber liner and a small pump to keep it healthy looking. I spent many an afternoon lounging in that pond while my goldfish swam around me. I tried it nude on only one occasion and that was ruined when a neighbor, a scraggily hippy-type of about twenty-eight years, ... Læs hele novellen
