Dining at the Devil's Backbone

Author's note: This is my entry for the Halloween contest.

Many thanks to Rustyoznail for editing this for me. It was an enjoyable collaboration.

Two brief notes: 1) I've taken some liberties with the uniform of the police officer character, so please just roll with it. 2) According to Wikipedia, Vlad Tepes is the real name of the person who inspired Bram Stoker's "Dracula", and Wikipedia's never wrong, right?

Anyway, I do hope you all enjoy it. Please vote however you think is appropriate, and I'd love to see whatever comments you have.

Thanks for reading,

Belle

*~~* *~~* *~~*

It was a dark and stormy night. Really, it was; one minute rain fell so heavily that the windshield wipers couldn't keep up. The next minute the deluge dissipated, but the fog was so thick it was like my car was just a suspended bubble wrapped in a cloud. Sound dampened, air dense and oppressive.

I was driving up to my friend's cabin for a weekend Halloween bash. One of those excuses to drink too much, sleep too late, and bed down with near strangers. Come in costume. Then cum in your costume. That kind of thing. I intended to escape from my dreary life and celebrate some good news.

An accident on the interstate blocked both northbound lanes, traffic backed up nine miles by the time I saw the first notice about it. I shunted myself off onto the highway that had been the main road through these mountains before the interstate was built. Apparently, everybody and their brother was going north that evening, and everybody's cousin had the same idea to avoid the interstate.

I thought, hey, I live here; I know these roads and I can figure out how to get there from here. I got off the highway onto the secondary road that would lead to the tertiary road that would eventually wend itself in the direction I needed. I wasn't in a hurry. Plus, I've got GPS on my phone; it's just a lot harder to get lost in this day and age than it used to be.

Still, I managed to somehow.

I turned off the highway. My little sedan climbed in the mountains, and the road got more and more narrow. The two lane track stuck precariously to the ridge like cat hair on a t-shirt. I felt the enormity of the rocks looming over my left shoulder and the enormity of the empty space on my right. The drop off was so steep that the tree tops didn't shield anything. For a while I was glad that I couldn't see over the edge.

There was a solidity to the blackness that pressed in on all sides. And what with the rain, or the fog, and occasionally both, my headlights barely penetrated the murk. I turned off the music that I'd been blaring, and my tires on the worn pavement groaned in a fatigued complaint.

I hunched over the steering wheel, my skirt bunching up under my thighs. My hands so tight that my knuckles had gone white. My feet in the cowboy boots slipping, unsure, hesitating between accelerator and brake. My chest ached; I realized I'd been holding my breath.

'Get a grip, Stevens,' I thought to myself. "It's just a damn country road in the dark. You've driven on these before." That I said out loud.

I rolled my shoulders, trying to resettle the little halter top and littler bra I wore as the top half of my costume. Sexy cowgirl; or sexy hillbilly, that's what I'd been going for. Short denim skirt, red and white gingham halter. Hair in pig tails. I'd borrowed the cowboy boots and a worn out Stetson from my roommate and her boyfriend.

The road kept going up, getting more narrow, and the fog just got worse. The rain had mostly stopped, but the water vapor in the air hung so thick I still had to use the wipers. A wall of white rolled away in front of the vehicle. The only saving grace was that I was certain mine was the only car on the road.

Still and all, there was plenty to worry about. The road was twisty, with s-shaped turns, blind curves, and bad markings. If there had been white lines at the edges, they were long since faded away. The yellow line, doubly solid the whole way, was at least consistently visible. So, I took my half down the middle, as they say. I used the center line as my guide, and crept along at a pace just fast enough that momentum overcame gravity.

I realized I had started muttering a mantra about avoiding bears and deer, asking the universe to save the abrupt rock fall for some other day when a person would have a fighting chance of seeing it coming. I crested the ridge and had to shake out my hands, as my grip on the steering wheel had caused a spasm.

Just then I glanced down at the phone to check my position and get some sense of where I was. The phone was black. Not switched into night mode. Not searching for a signal or endlessly recalculating a route. No, it was black; like dead. And I had to keep going. There wasn't a hint of a safe place to pull over, and I didn't risk stopping in the middle of the road. My options were to keep driving the way I was, or try to turn around. It was pitch dark; I hadn't seen a street lamp in at least ten miles; and I had no visibility around me. I had a mostly full tank of gas. So, realistically, the only option was forward. I forced myself to press the accelerator, knowing that prolonging the descent would just make me more nervous.

The fog got worse. It didn't seem possible. It didn't seem physically or atmospherically possible for the visibility to decrease. But somehow it did; the hood of my car disappeared and the light from my headlamps just bounced around aimlessly. I started panting, half convinced that the darkness was swallowing me and my car. Half believing that the night was alive, intent on eating me whole, or that I was already halfway down the gullet of some monstrous creature.

I drove on, counting my heartbeats, feeling sure that at some point the road was going to abruptly end and my car would just free fall off the side of the mountain.

Then, the quality of the gray light reflecting back from my headlights changed. Subtly at first, then a little more noticeably. I realized there was a streetlamp or something just ahead, off to my right. I crept closer, and noticed that the light was more than one color. I pieced together that it must be a sign. And I thought a lighted sign meant a business, which meant a parking lot. Which meant I could stop, try to figure out what was wrong with my phone, and maybe get my bearings.

As I got to the sign, I saw that it read "Devil's Backbone Mercantile and Diner." I stared at it, unsure I was seeing it correctly. There is a tourist attraction I know called The Devil's Backbone; it's a rock formation along a mountain ridge popular with hikers. And the name of a brewery. But I shouldn't have been anywhere near it. I should have been miles to the south.

A large metal awning sheltered a couple of gas pumps that were obviously out of service. I drove under it, between the pumps. For the life of me, I could not see a building. The sign illuminated the area just enough for me to park safely. The fog enveloped my car, the sign and the awning, isolating me in what might have been an endless night. I put the car in park, shaking, and just sat there. I debated whether to turn the map light on, trying to decide if it would blind me or be useful. But mostly I just sat there, willing the tension to dissipate. I reached for the phone, and my hand trembled too badly to pick it up.

I had a couple of bottles of liquor in my suitcase. I thought about breaking one of them open. I thought of the rough warmth of decent whisky, and the probable calm I'd feel. Then I thought about attempting to keep driving this road even one iota less clear thinking than I had been. The crystal clear image of my car careening off the mountain, crashing through tree tops and plunging into a creek, never to be seen again, convinced me to leave the liquor where it was.

Suddenly I was freezing, even though the car's heater worked fine and just a few minutes ago I'd been sweating. I shook uncontrollably, and let the spasm roll through me. Just when I'd calmed down again, the fog lit up in red and blue.

I jumped, startled, confused, disoriented. Red and blue, red and blue, alternating. Then the echo of a rumble of a large engine, and I understood. He pulled in front of my car, side on but a good five or six feet away from my front bumper. His lights blinded me, bouncing off all the water molecules, refracting. I held my hand in front of my face, blinking rapidly until my eyes adjusted somewhat.

By then he was at my window, tapping on the glass with that wooden club that so many cops carry. I breathed a sigh of relief. A State Trooper, stopping to see if I needed any help. I pressed the button to lower the window all the way.

Before I could say anything, he said, "Miss, I need you to turn off your vehicle."

I did.

"Do you know why I stopped you this evening?"

I thought, 'What? I was already stopped.'

But what came out of my mouth was, "No, Officer."

He leaned down so that his face was level with mine. "I've been following you for miles. You were driving recklessly."

I thought, 'Wait, creeping through fog at ten miles an hour is driving recklessly? And no one was behind me.'

But what I said was, "I'm sorry, Officer."

I realized I was staring at him. Staring at his eyes. They were as gray as the fog that surrounded us. They were as blue as a turbulent sea. They were as green as a forest in the last throes of summer. They were as brown as a freshly dug grave. I couldn't look away.

His lips were blood red. They were wine red. They were pale pink. His lips were full. Or thin. Or his mouth was wide. He smiled. No, he frowned. No, he grinned. No, he grimaced. His voice seeped out of him in a low rumble that reverberated in my skull. His voice was a high pitched keen that pierced my ears and made my eyes water.

He smelled like roses, and lilacs, and ash, and smoke. He smelled like cherry blossoms and death. He sucked the air out of my car, and the cold radiated off of him like a warning. I still couldn't look away. You couldn't have paid me to look away. I bathed in his stare, wrapping his voice around me like a plush robe.

My hands dropped, slipping off my thighs and hitting the seat. I relaxed into the backrest and my knees fell open. Every muscle loosened and my focus shifted, narrowed, and concentrated on his otherworldly handsome face.

I registered a movement out of the corner of my eye, and realized he'd reached in through the open window, holding the nightstick. The end of the club tapped the seat between my knees, just below the hem of my short skirt. I breathed in sharply and felt the pleasure of my pussy beginning to flush and the sensation of moisture soaking into my thong.

The trooper's fingers were long, thin and pale, wrapped around the end of the black billy club. My gaze shifted to his hand, and a low groan leaked out of my mouth as I imagined his digits inside me. As I ached for him to touch me.

As he began inching the tip of the truncheon along the seat, closer and closer to my crotch, I had one moment of incredulity.

'I should be screaming,' I thought. 'I should be horrified. What is he doing?'

The nightstick made contact with the hem of my skirt, and inexorably he kept it moving, folding the fabric onto itself. He shifted the position of the stick just enough that it dragged along my bare thigh. That was the last minute I thought anything was amiss. The touch of that painted wooden dowel was electric. It was better than any vibrator, better than my favorite dildo, better than the last two boyfriends I'd had.

He handled it smoothly, gliding along my tender skin as my arousal increased and my panties became completely soaked. I spread my legs as far as I could, completely open to his ministrations. The end of the club made contact with my vulva, and he pressed it there firmly. Then slid the end up and down, catching the front of my slit and causing a gush of lubrication to coat my underwear, the seat and the nightstick. He kept the movement going, up and down, over and over, until another moan rolled out of my mouth.

He'd been staring at me, his expression unreadable, the whole time. I was lost in his eyes, some part of me hoping that he would devour me. The part of my brain that had been nervous or surprised now silent, overruled or overwhelmed by my reaction. My body felt leaden, paralyzed and boneless, like potter's clay waiting to be formed. Waiting to be handled by those long, thin fingers and large, pale palms.

After a few more strokes of the end of the truncheon against my mound, the trooper started drawing the stick upward. My skirt pulled up more, and he began to trace a line over my stomach, toward my breasts.

Then he spoke again, the words floating out of him. "You can unbuckle your seatbelt now, Miss. You won't be driving for a while."

I did as I was told, and much to my relief, he continued caressing my torso with the nightstick. Then he traced a circuit of one breast and eased the tip up to my chin. He pressed on my chin slightly, and I dutifully opened my mouth. He pushed the end of the club into my mouth, and I tasted my own juice on it. I licked the end while still staring into his eyes. He smiled briefly, and my heart thumped with pleasure at having done the correct thing.

He pushed the billy club a little further into my mouth, my jaw gaping open to accommodate it. He pressed down on my tongue.

I heard him say, as though from a distance, "You're driving under the influence, Miss. That's very dangerous. I'm going to have to cite you. Possibly arrest you."

I found myself nodding slowly, the rod still in my mouth.

He reached in with his other hand and unlatched my car door. As he opened it he used the billy club in my mouth to direct my movements, turning my head towards him, and then starting to withdraw it to lead me out of the car. I clamped my lips around the end, and whimpered when he had to take it out of my mouth so I could step past the edge of the door.

He slipped the truncheon back into its loop on his belt. I stood a foot or two in front of him, staring up at his face, still hypnotized by his eyes. His grey uniform fit like a glove, and the belt with his weapons, truncheon, handcuffs and other tools hung suggestively at his hips. There was a brass name plate over the right chest pocket of his shirt.

The name on the plate was: V. Tepes.

I stood there, slack jawed, inhaling his scent, trembling with need for his touch. I stood, breathing slowly, unable to question why I was reacting the way I was. I stood there, not caring that none of this made sense. I stood still, enveloped by his presence, shielded by the fog and a night as black as sin.

When he spoke, I watched his breath disturb the air. It shouldn't have been possible. It wasn't cold enough to see breath, and I was so close to him that there wasn't enough fog to bother. And yet, in my memory, I see the air moving as the words lilt out of his mouth. He smiled, as though he was pleased with both of us. A knowing smile, not a happy one. His smile and his eyes drew me up straight, pinned my feet to the ground. They were strings attached to me, and made me his marionette.

He said again, "Miss, you're driving under the influence. That's very serious. I'm going to have to investigate."

"Yes, Officer, sir," I replied.

"Sergeant Tepes. That's how you will refer to me."

"Yes, Sergeant Tepes."

"What's your name, Miss?"

"Vivian Stevens, Sergeant Tepes."

"And how old are you, Miss Stevens, to be driving so far from home so late at night?"

I should have wondered how he knew anything about where I lived, or how my age was any of his business. But I was past caring.

"I'm twenty-nine, Sergeant."

He nodded, slowly, and I saw his gaze travel down my body then scrape back up again. My heart thumped and a shiver ran down my spine. He walked around me, making a complete circuit, and I felt his stare the whole time. I felt a spot of cold drawing itself around me, covering me, electrifying my skin.

When he stood in front of me again, his smile was wider and he drew in a deep breath through his nose and exhaled slowly. His mouth opened slightly as his grin broadened. There was something slightly odd about the way his lips covered his teeth. I noticed and dismissed that. I wanted his mouth on me somehow, somewhere, and any deformity in his anatomy was worth accepting.

He spoke again, softly, "Miss Stevens, I'm going to have to investigate thoroughly. I will search you and your vehicle. You will cooperate. You will do whatever I ask, and answer all of my questions completely."

He wasn't asking; he was asserting. I wasn't actually under any obligation to cooperate, to let him search anything, or to give him any information other than my name. But in that moment, anything other than obedience was unthinkable.

"Yes, Sergeant Tepes. I'll cooperate fully."

"Good." He pulled a plastic bag from somewhere, opening it up with both hands. "Take off your panties, and put them in here."

"Yes, Sergeant."

I reached down, pulling up my skirt, and used my thumbs to hook into the waistband of the thong. I stepped wide and shimmied the underwear down my leg. I worked each leg opening over the cowboy boots, and managed to step out of the garment without falling. I stepped toward the Trooper and dropped the drenched fabric into the plastic bag.

He brought the bag to his face, taking in another very deep breath through his nose. When he looked at me, his eyes flashed scarlet and then went back to the indistinguishable dark shade I'd first seen. He was grinning then, slack jawed, as he closed the bag, folding it over itself to trap the air. Then he sealed it with an orange sticker with the word "evidence" written in big black letters.

He stepped back. "I'm going to put this in my vehicle. Take off the rest of your clothes and put them on your driver's seat."

He turned his back and I hurried to comply. I shucked off my skirt, pulling my feet out of the boots at the same time I was unzipping the fastening. I turned and tossed the boots into the car, not caring where they landed. I stood next to my open driver's side window and dropped the skirt in. Then I reached up to unfasten the halter, but the knot was tight; I just yanked it up and slid my arms out. I did the same with the bra, not bothering to unhook it, but just stretching the fabric over my breasts and pulling it off like a shirt. My heart was racing. I didn't feel the chill. The damp of the fog comforted, like each water molecule was caressing me somehow.

I turned away from the car, and the Trooper was standing next to me. I hadn't heard him move. He pulled the truncheon out of its loop, and ran the tip down my side, across the front of my thigh and up my center. He pressed the end into my crotch, sliding it back and forth slightly, coating it with my copious lubrication. Then he trailed the stick up, across my belly button, over my sternum and tapped my chin again. I opened my mouth wide, sucking on the end that he pressed to my tongue.

"Follow me," he said, softly still. He stepped away and I stepped forward. He used the nightstick again to guide me into the position he wanted. We went around to the front of my car and I backed up until my legs touched the front bumper.

He tilted the nightstick up, and I craned my head backward, extending my neck. He pushed down on the stick and it slipped further into my mouth. I sucked and swallowed, managing to look at his face, hoping he understood I'd do the same to him. He hadn't touched me but I thought of that baton as an extension of him. He pulled it out and traced another line down my front before replacing it into its loop.

"I have to search you now," he said.

I nodded as he continued, "Turn around."