The Last Mile

The following short-short story is another piece from Down the Rabbit Hole as originally written. I wouldn’t consider it erotic, although it contains sex of a sort. It’s a piece of an idea about a character really.

Wade Esley

The Last Mile

Trish sat on the hard concrete step sipping iced tea. Behind her, the screen door was propped open in hopes that an errant breeze may cool the small trailer home. The AC hadn’t worked all summer, and the unbearable humidity offered no sign of easing its grip as the day faded to evening. Beads of sweat ran freely down her neck and her dress clung to her body like a wet sheet. Her nipples were plainly visible through the thin linen, but she had long given up any sense of humility that she may have once held.

She waited like this most nights for her other half to return from his prowling about town. He would likely show up late, smelling of whisky and whore. She took a long slow drag from the cigarette. Trish’s eye hurt, but at least the swelling had gone down. Deep in thought, she stared into nothingness. She was vaguely aware of footsteps on the gravel drive.

“Hi,” came a distant voice. The sound to Trish seemed no more than a faint echo. “Hello?” She glanced in the direction of the voice. It was Nate. He lived with his mother a few lots over. He was a nice boy…worked part time down at the grocery. He was staring at her breasts.

“Hi, Nate,” Trish said. He blushed slightly and looked away.

“Hi,” he said nervously. “Sure is hot, ain’t it?”

“It sure is. Did you work today?”

“Yeah. I’m just heading home.”

“At least it’s cool at work.” Trish smiled politely.

“Yeah, it is.” Nate looked at the ground. He nervously shuffled

his feet in the gravel. “Is Billy home?”

“No.” Thank goodness.

“Can I ask you something? I mean…some guys were telling me something,” He stammered.

“What is it, Nate?” She looked deep into his eyes.

“Well, you sure are pretty, and a guy at work told me…” Nates voice trailed off.

“Was it Bradley?” Trish asked. Nate nodded. “That little shit. What did he say?”

“Never mind. He’s just lying.”

Trish felt bad for him. Nate was a little awkward, but a real sweetheart. “Did he tell you about yesterday afternoon?” He nodded. “Listen, Nate. I don’t want you to think badly of me. I really need the money. I’ve got to get out of this place.”

“I understand,” he said. “How’s your eye?”

Without thinking, Trish touched it with her hand. “It’ll be OK.” She caught him looking at her legs. Her dress was pulled up to her thighs. “How much do you have?”

“I’ve got twenty, but I get paid tomorrow,” he said excitedly.

Trish exhaled. Looking at him, she dropped the cigarette on the ground and smashed it with her foot. Nate watched Trish’s foot as it twisted back and forth. Her sandals were worn. The flat leather sole held by a couple of thin straps. The paint on her toenails was chipped and faded. Trish felt a little sorry for him. “For twenty I’ll rub it for you,” she said.

The disappointment on his face was immediate…but brief. “Can I touch your tits?” he asked with a grin.

She smiled back. “Only because I like you. But on top of my dress, OK?”

He nodded in agreement.

Trish stood up and took his hand. She led him around the corner of the trailer. They stopped between some overgrown shrubs, and he handed her a crinkled twenty dollar bill. Trish raised her skirt…higher and higher, deliberately taking her time, until he could see her panties. She tucked the twenty under the thin strap at her hip and let her skirt fall. He was noticeably excited by her little show. It would hopefully make her work go a little quicker.

Nervously, Nate moved his hand toward Trish’s breast. He stopped, looking into her eyes questioningly. She nodded and smiled. “It’s OK. Go ahead.” He fumbled nervously for a moment before reaching both hands up to touch them. She stood silently watching his face as he stared and fondled her tits. He squirmed nervously, as Trish unzipped his pants and reached inside. When she touched him, she felt ashamed. What am I doing? She thought.

Trish knew how to make men feel good. She knew how to use her body, and she knew how to use her words. Before long, Nate was groaning as his body convulsed and expelled his lust onto the ground. Without a word, Trish stepped back and adjusted her top.

Nate zipped his fly…nervous embarrassment on his face. “Well…I guess I should be getting home,” he said. He stepped closer and leaned in as if to give her a kiss. Instinctively, Trish pulled away. The disappointment on his face was pronounced. She smiled, lowered her resistance, and kissed him on the cheek. It was enough. As he turned to walk away, Trish saw the product of their activities in the dirt at her feet, and her stomach churned. Her insides ached until her body rebelled against what she had made it do. She doubled over and spewed vomit on the ground, her body heaving violently like Nate’s had when he came. Tears filled her eyes as she wiped the corners of her mouth.

Trish looked around to make sure no one could see. She reached behind the junk pile leaning against the back of the trailer and pulled out a coffee can. Inside was her hope for a new life. Inside was her only chance to escape. She counted the money, glancing around nervously. Nate’s twenty made an even three hundred dollars. It would have to be enough.


Trish could hear Billy’s piece of shit truck from two miles away. It had an exhaust leak which made it roar when he stepped on the accelerator, and it would backfire when he shifted gears. It was twelve thirty in the morning. No chance he wouldn’t be drunk.

“Hey, baby,” he said as he stumbled towards the front steps.

Trish sat still and responded “Hey, babe.” Gotta play it cool, she thought.

“I missed you, baby. What’s for dinner?”

Dinner was four hours ago, you prick! Trish thought quietly to herself. “Do you want me to fix you a sandwich?”

He glared at her. “I guess not. I really just want to eat you,” he said as he reached for her waist.

She wanted to pull away. Play it cool, she reminded herself. “That sounds good,” she said in her best acting voice.

Lying on the couch with her skirt hiked up and Billy’s face buried between her legs, Trish continued playing her part. God, I hope he’s getting hard, she thought. She knew all too well—If he’s too drunk to get it up, he’ll get angry. The bruises on her arms were proof of that. She continued squirming and grinding her pussy into his face. After a few minutes she provided his ego with an oscar worthy orgasm. He pulled away and climbed on top of her. Thank God, she thought as he pushed inside of her.

A few sweaty minutes later, it was over. Billy was passed out on the couch and Trish was showering his stink off of her body. Standing under the warm shower of water, she cried. Goddamn, how did I get here? Sobbing, she slid down onto the floor of the shower. The grout between the tiles was cracked and mildewed. She cut her foot on one of the broken tiles. Naked and alone, her head hung low, and Trish thought about her Mom. She was a good woman and a good mother. She was full of love and hope until Trish’s dad got cancer and died. She just couldn’t cope with life without him by her side. After she was institutionalized, Trish got involved with a deadbeat that reminded her of her Dad. One bad relationship after another had finally lead her to Billy—that son of a bitch. Trish’s jaw clenched as she thought of the hell he put her through over the last six months. She stood and turned the faucet handle. The shower head continued to drip.

Trish slid the jeans over her round hips and looked into the mirror. “You can do this,” she told herself. She pulled her wet hair back and grabbed her bag from the closet. She glanced quickly through the open door as she walked over to Billy’s side of the bed…just to make sure. He was still passed out on the couch. The drawer creaked as she slid it open. Startled, Trish looked again to make sure he didn’t move. Lying in the drawer was her safety net—if everything went wrong. She tucked the gun into the back of her jeans and walked out of the bedroom for the last time.

She made her way toward the front door. There were no last glances for forgotten items. No hesitations or fond memories. There was nothing for her there. Nothing but misery and torment. If she was to have a future it was somewhere else.

She picked up the bottle of whiskey from the coffee table. Staring at Billy, Trish took a shot of courage and a deep breath. Then she emptied the bottle on the couch where Billy lay unconscious. Watching the son of a bitch sleeping, she lit a cigarette. She stared at him and took a long slow drag. Exhaling, her hand felt the bruise on her face. She lay the lit cigarette on the cheap fabric next to Billy. After a few moments, it began to smolder. She left through the front door, locking it behind her, and headed for Ray’s.

Ray loved anything with an engine. Ray also loved to get high, and his most recent drug of choice was Meth. He fancied himself a NASCAR superstar, but most days he was lucky to make it to work. He was a mechanic at a repair shop across town. He was really good at it, at least when he wasn’t fucked up. He lived on the far side of the trailer park from Trish and Billy. In typical Ray style, meaning that of a piece of shit, he would always try to grope Trish’s ass or accidentally rub against her tits when she was unfortunate enough to run into him.

When Ray started bragging about his new motorcycle, Trish acted impressed. Of course, it wasn’t really new. It was a wreck that his boss had given him. He and a buddy at the repair shop worked on it in their spare time. They scrounged parts from other wrecked bikes, bought a few, and stole some others. In the end, it looked like it might fall apart if you actually rode it, but it ran.


Trish tapped on Ray’s bedroom window.


“What?” Ray yelled, flinging the nicotine stained curtain back. “Who the fuck is it?”

“It’s me,” she replied. The curtain fell closed. She could hear him stumbling around. The stumbling seemed to move closer to the front door.

Ray stepped out onto the creaky wooden porch. “Hey, baby,” he said with that shit eating grin of his. His teeth were really bad. The Meth was starting to take its tole on him.

“I need my bike,” she whispered.

“Come inside, sweet cheeks.” Ray was too loud.

“I need my bike, Ray.” Trish spoke in hushed tones. “I’m leaving tonight.”

Ray looked her up and down. She could almost feel his eyes on her body. He nearly fell as he jumped down from the wobbly porch, and walked over to her. He stank like sweaty ass. “Your bike?” he said. “The way I figure, you’ve got a few more payments to make.” He reached his hand out grabbing at her arm. She pulled away.

“Goddammit, Ray, we had a deal!”

“We still have a deal, baby. You just owe me a little more.” He lunged grabbing her wrist and pulled her toward him. He tried to kiss her with that rotten smelling mouth. She pulled away, but he was strong. He twisted her arm hard, bending her over. Her wrist burned where his hand gripped it, and pain shot through her shoulder like a knife.

A few blocks away, the firehouse alarm sounded. Ray looked up for a moment, and his grip loosened slightly. Trish balled up her tiny fist, and with every ounce of strength she could muster punched him hard in the ball sack. He fell to his knees, groaning in pain. “You bitch!” he yelled. He lifted his head and found himself looking straight down the barrel of a Glock 9mm.

“You’ve had the last piece of ass you’re getting from me, Ray! Where are my fucking keys?” She pushed the barrel of the gun against his filthy head. “I’m in a hurry, Ray. I need my bike…now.” She pushed the barrel harder.

“I’ve got it right here,” Ray was almost crying, “right here in my shirt pocket.” He started to reach his hand up. She glared at him. He paused then moved his hand slowly. With two fingers he reached inside his shirt pocket and pulled out a single key. He dropped the key into her outstretched hand. Trish backed away…keeping the gun pointing squarely at Ray’s ugly mug. “Why you gotta be like this, Trish?” he pleaded.

Trish pulled the tarp off the bike with one hand, keeping a close eye on her junkie friend. The sounds of firetrucks grew louder as they pulled into the far side of the trailer park. She tucked the gun back into her pants and threw a leg over the small Honda. The headlight came on when she turned the key. A few sharp kicks and the small engine purred to life. She clicked it into first gear and idled across the grass to the gravel drive and stopped. Trish looked back at Ray, still on his knees in the damp grass.

“Ray,” she said. “You should forget all about me.” She stared at him with eyes of steel. He nodded understanding. “God knows I’ll try to forget you.” She turned and headed West out of the trailer park.