17 comments/ 36494 views/ 14 favorites Informed Consent By: robindavisfiction Copyright 2014 by robindavisfiction. This story may not be republished or posted on other websites without the written permission of the author. _______________________ Dear Readers, Once again, it was not immediately clear to me which category to select for this story. Although there is an element of reluctance, I ultimately decided this probably best fits in the loving wives section even though it may not be typical of the types of stories in this category. I hope you will enjoy reading, and I look forward to your feedback and votes. ________________________ Debbie stepped out of the elevator and looked down the hall where Simon was arguing on his cell phone. His hand stabbed the air as his voice rose. "What? All of a sudden the fucker don't trust me? I been selling that asshole good shit. Hell yeah. On the corner by the ambulance entrance? I don't give a fuck. Call me when the asshole shows up, damn it, and I'll be there." Simon pocketed his phone and muttered something Debbie couldn't understand, and then he noticed her watching. Without speaking, he turned and beckoned her to follow. She had a fleeting impulse to bolt and run, but instead she walked toward Simon down the deserted hallway. He rattled a ring of keys and unlocked Dr. Hastings' lab and office suite. They walked into the reception area, and he paused at the counter. "Here's the deal. I'm gonna show you the drug, but before you get it, we go into the bitch's office for my payment." Debbie followed him past the counter into the lab. He unlocked the walk-in cold-room and ushered her inside. With a second key, he unlocked the cabinet where the clinical trial materials were stored, and she saw several numbered glass vials, each containing a yellowish liquid. They were identical except for the numbers printed on the labels. Debbie stared at the row of vials with a concerned expression. "This is a randomized trial," she said. "For every two patients who get the real drug, one gets a placebo. How do I know you aren't going to give me a placebo?" "Ain't my problem. Once you've paid me, it's your choice. Hell, be really nice to me and I'll let you have two. Maybe you'll get lucky." Simon grinned and relocked the cabinet. "Now you know I can get in here. Let's go get started on my payment— in that bitch doctor's office." Debbie looked at Simon in alarm. "In her office? But what if we get caught?" She had barely accepted the idea of having sex with Simon after failing to come up with any other options. Now, the possibility of being caught in the doctor's office and then being forced to leave without the drug stoked her already intense anxiety. "Don't worry. Nobody works at night here. Anyway, I don't give a shit about getting caught. I'm leaving this rat hole soon for a much better line of work." "But I care. I don't want to take the risk that we won't be able to get back in here. Give me the vial now, and then I'll do what you want. Please! This is too important to me to take a chance." Simon rested his hand on her shoulder and looked at her as though trying to reach a complicated decision. "No problem, but first, give me your clothes. I ain't gonna have you trying to make a run for it 'til my hour's up." "What? You mean in here?" "Damn straight. You strip. I unlock the cabinet. You choose your bottle and give it to me. I'll keep it with your clothes. My hour starts when you're in the bitch's office and I'm between your legs. What you do after I've taken my payment is your business." Debbie was revolted by what she was about to do, and she didn't want him to see how close she was to crying. With grim determination, she ignored Simon's leer and began unbuttoning her blouse, trying to pretend she was alone. She quickly dropped her blouse and skirt on the floor, remembering that Michael, the man she loved more than anything else in the world, had been with her when she picked out the skirt. After shopping they had eaten lunch together at a new Italian restaurant, and she remembered how Michael had made her laugh. She remembered the music playing in the background as they shared dessert. She looked at Simon defiantly and unhooked her bra and let it fall to the floor. She would get through this ordeal and get the vial of medicine Michael needed so badly. To hell with Simon and his hungry stare. "Panties too." She ignored Simon's eyes roaming up and down her body. After her panties joined the pile, she stood awkwardly while he unlocked the cabinet. Debbie stared at the row of identical vials. Her nakedness and sense of vulnerability spurred her to rush, but she was paralyzed by the seriousness of the choice she had to make. She had no way of knowing which vial held potential life and which held a useless saline solution, but she had to choose one, or two at most. She was tempted to take several, but she had studied the protocol carefully and knew it specified a single dose. Maybe if she took only one, no one would notice a vial missing while Michael was still in the hospital. She closed her eyes and reached toward the vials. Simon stepped behind her and placed his hands on her waist. She shivered slightly when he lightly stroked her from the top of her hips to the edge of her breasts. "Nice tits. I like what the cold air does to them." She made her selection and stepped away from Simon before his fingers reached her nipples. She bent to pick up her clothes, but Simon quickly pushed them out of her reach with his foot. "Not so fast. I'll keep the clothes. Give me the bottle, too." He put her purse and clothes into an orange plastic bag labeled for biohazard waste and winked at Debbie as he dropped the vial on top of her clothes. "I hope you picked the good shit. Either way, it's time for my payment. Let's go." What little sense of control she may have felt before disappeared when Debbie saw Simon step away with her clothes in the bag. She had never been confident that agreeing to Simon's deal was a great idea, and now she was nearly overwhelmed with second thoughts. "Please, let me give you money instead." Debbie covered her breasts with her hands and shivered under the sterile fluorescent light and Simon's cold gaze. "We have some savings. I can take you to our bank," she said. "It's almost two thousand dollars." "No, I've told you, I don't want your money. You know my price. I ain't gonna force you to take the deal, but I ain't changing the price neither—your call. I'll wait for you by the bitch doctor's door for two minutes to give you time to think about your choices. If you don't show, I'll leave your clothes on the floor and take the medicine with me—no harm no foul." He shut the door behind him with a loud click, and Debbie finally gave into the tears she had been fighting to control. She hunched her shoulders, rubbed her hands up and down her arms, and trembled in the cold air. She had no time to think, no way to ask for anyone's advice, and she knew her decision was something she would live with for the rest of her life. If only, oh God, if only—. * * * It seemed to Debbie that her last day of real happiness had been in a different lifetime rather than just over a week ago—back when imagining herself in Michael's arms never failed to brighten her mood after a long day of teaching unruly high school students. She remembered pedaling happily along the bike path toward home, daydreaming of the weekend to come and grinning in anticipation of watching her husband's face when she surprised him after his favorite dinner with her skimpy new silk nightgown to celebrate their decision to get pregnant. After three years of married familiarity, she still looked forward to every hour they spent together, and they both were eager to share their togetherness with a child to be born of their love for each other. She remembered how Michael had sounded tired on the phone the previous couple of days. He had been out of town for a week with his firm's largest client, dealing with manufacturing process problems he had been only partially successful in solving. He had been unable to sleep well and told her he had difficulty concentrating on his work, but his mood had brightened when Debbie told him exactly how she would make him feel better once he got home. When she heard Michael's cab pulled into their driveway, Debbie lit the candles on the dining room table, and before he could put his key in the door, she opened it wide and leapt into Michael's arms, almost knocking him off the front porch. They both laughed when he nearly dropped her, and laughed again when he tripped over his briefcase in his enthusiasm to give her a second glad-to-be-home kiss. She remembered them catching up on the little details of their week apart as they enjoyed a relaxing dinner together. Michael sipped hot tea and watched the excitement in his wife's eyes as she described the surprising progress made by one of her more difficult students. When she paused in her story, he began clearing dishes. "Keep talking. I'll just take care of this while you relax and finish your story. Sounds like you had a great week." Debbie had a better idea. With a coy smile, she took the dishes from his hands, set them back on the table, and guided him into the bedroom. "Both the story and the kitchen can wait. You relax and I'll be right back." She lit two candles and placed them on the table beside their bed, turned off the light, and disappeared into the bathroom. Soon, she emerged transformed from conservative schoolteacher into sexy seductress. "Wow. How did I get so lucky?" Michael asked as he closed his eyes briefly and steadied himself against the dresser. But, then he looked up and stepped toward her as strong and handsome as ever and she forgot all about her momentary worry. She unclipped her ponytail and walked slowly to meet him next to the bed. Her hair fell in waves around her shoulders, and flickering light danced over her face. Michael pushed the straps of her nightgown down her shoulders and let the silk pool at her feet. He cupped her breasts gently and then caressed her cheeks with the back of his fingers. He brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes before he kissed her. Their tongues danced together until Debbie stepped back and began unbuttoning his shirt. She unfastened his pants and knelt before him, flicking her tongue lightly across the tip of his hardening penis. She took him into her mouth and began to slowly slide her lips along his shaft, but paused and then looked up at him with a frown on her face. She had sensed that something wasn't right. "How did you get this bruise on your leg?" she asked. "It looks painful." "It doesn't hurt. I hadn't really noticed it—must have bumped against something walking through the plant." He ran his fingers lightly through Debbie's hair and smiled down at her. "You know what?" he asked and drew her to her feet. "What?" She stepped closer, just close enough for her breasts to touch his chest, and his erection to caress her belly. "I love you, Mrs. Taylor." "I love you too, Mr. Taylor. And, you know what I want?" "Anything, my love." "I want you forever." Michael found her lips with his and pulled her into a strong embrace. They fell together onto the bed, and she pushed him onto his back. She guided his cock to her wetness and impaled herself fully as he thrust upward to meet her. They moved together in familiar synchrony, gently at first, but soon with more urgency. The bed squeaked in time with their rhythm. Michael rolled her over without slowing his steady pace. They looked into each other's eyes until hers fluttered, and she began moaning in passionate abandon. Her face glowed with ecstasy in the candlelight. "Come with me." Her voice was ragged, and she shuddered on the edge of orgasm. "Fuck me." Her expression was midway between a smile and a grimace. Michael entwined his fingers with hers. He drove into her hard and deep. Her head thrashed on the pillow. She moaned and convulsed under him as she came. He whispered, "I love you," as he pumped his semen into her eager body. They continued moving gently together for a few more strokes before Michael broke their intimate embrace and rolled to the side without releasing Debbie's hand. He drew her fingers to his mouth for a gentle kiss. They lay side-by-side and looked into each other's eyes without speaking, resting together contentedly. With one hand on his wife's breast, Michael drifted quickly into sleep, and Debbie soon followed. She was deep in a pleasant dream of surf and sun and Michael spreading suntan oil on her back when Debbie awoke with a start. Something had fallen. She reached for Michael, but her hand found only empty space in the sheets where he should have been. She heard him moan from across the room. "Michael?" There was no response. She fumbled for the light switch at the bottom of the bedside lamp and called his name louder. Her confusion changed quickly to fear when she turned on the light and saw Michael sprawled on the floor, half in the bathroom and half in the bedroom. She ran to kneel beside her husband, rested her hand on his shoulder, and called his name. He stirred slightly and groaned. Slowly he raised his head and gave her half a smile. "You're hot. I think you have fever," she said. "And your mouth is bleeding." "I must have bit my tongue when I fell. I'm okay—just got a little dizzy is all." As soon as Michael stood, he had to grab the doorknob and Debbie's arm to keep from falling again. "Maybe I'm coming down with the flu," he said as she helped him back to bed. Michael fell quickly back to sleep, but Debbie lay awake worrying in the darkness before a restless sleep finally overtook her. She awoke feeling anxious, and her worry approached panic when she saw that Michael now had bruises on his chest and arm. His pillow was stained with blood. Debbie clearly remembered the icy fear that had gripped her heart at the thought Michael might have something more serious than the flu, but she had not been remotely ready for the terrifying words the doctor first spoke to them after the test results were in. "I'm sorry, but I have bad news for you." Michael was seated on the exam table holding Debbie's hand. Dr. McKinley walked to stand next to them, and Debbie could sense his tension, as though the doctor was reluctant to give his patients bad news. "Michael has a very aggressive form of leukemia called AML." The doctor paused at Debbie's gasp and placed his hand on her shoulder before turning his attention to Michael. "The good news is that we can treat it, but we have to act quickly. I'd like to get your consent to admit you to the hospital this afternoon and begin treatment tonight." Dr. McKinley handed Michael a clipboard with several pages to read and sign. "Doctor, this is a lot to read. Can't you just tell me what it says? I'll do whatever you recommend." "My advice is to read each page. The drugs used for leukemia have risks. Basically, when you sign this, you are granting your informed consent to treatment that could harm you—with no guarantee of benefit." "He'll be okay, won't he? You can cure him?" Debbie had asked in a trembling voice. Her eyes glistened, and her lips trembled as she fought back tears. "We can treat him, yes. We'll give him the best treatment medicine has to offer. But I won't tell you this is not serious." "Dr. McKinley, what are my chances?" Michael asked. The doctor remained silent for a moment as though choosing his words carefully. "You're young and otherwise healthy. Nearly fifty percent of younger patients achieve a long-term remission, maybe even a cure. We'll know more after the first week of treatment." The doctor quietly closed the door as he left the room. Debbie couldn't speak, couldn't hold back the tide of emotion that had taken control of her mind and heart. A fifty percent chance was not high enough, not nearly high enough. Things were moving too fast. She shuddered. Michael put his arms around her, and she buried her face against the shoulder that had always been so strong for her. Michael gently stroked her face as she sobbed. Eventually, Debbie found she could hardly stay awake despite the hospital noise. The steady beeps and changing numbers on the instruments monitoring Michael's vital signs had quickly lost their fascination. She had become accustomed to the false alarms that sounded each time the finger clip that measured his blood oxygen slipped off. The hospital staff had been reluctant to allow her to spend the night, but when she made it clear they would have to carry her out of the hospital, they grudgingly relented. Their kindness didn't extend as far as finding her something more comfortable to sleep on than the straight-backed chair next to his bed. Each time her head began to fall toward her chest, she jerked back to wakefulness and looked to see if Michael was stirring. The night had been rough on him. She had sponged his face with a cool wet towel each time he vomited. Eventually his retching producing nothing, and as dawn approached, he fell into an exhausted sleep while Debbie struggled to remain alert in case he needed her help. At mid-morning, a young doctor she had never seen before briefly looked in and scribbled notes for the nurses. "We'll try increasing the anti-nausea meds," he told Debbie. "So far there are no real problems, but we want your husband to be as comfortable as possible." "Thank you, Doctor." Debbie was grateful for even small signs of concern. The next few days passed slowly, a hazy blur of sleeplessness, fatigue, hope, and anxiety. The doctors ordered antibiotics to prevent infection as the chemotherapy slowly destroyed his immunity. Sores developed in Michael's mouth, and his remaining appetite disappeared with the pain of eating anything solid. Soon, he had a mild fever, became too weak to walk without assistance, and was seldom free of nausea. Debbie spent two hours each morning in the medical library near the hospital and sat with Michael as long as possible each night. She had taken a leave of absence from teaching and brought books and medical journal articles to Michael's room to read as much as she could about leukemia. With the help of the librarian, she sorted through arcane details of experimental medicine and clinical trials. Before she knew it, a week had passed. It was time for the test results that Debbie anticipated with dread and hope, a bone marrow analysis to determine whether or not the chemotherapy was working. She paced Michael's small room, two steps to the window, two steps to the sink, and one step to Michael's bed, until he summoned the energy and humor to tell her she was making him dizzy. She sat in the chair and took Michael's hand in hers, placed her head on the bed next to his, and waited. "Good afternoon Michael, Debbie," said Dr. McKinley. He walked into the small room with a younger doctor and a nurse, and Debbie could tell from his expression that he had bad news. The younger doctor refused to look her in the eye. She took a deep breath, said a silent prayer for good news, and resolved to remain calm no matter what the doctor said. She remained seated, holding Michael's hand. "Unfortunately, there are still blast cells in your bone marrow. Michael, this means that your leukemia may be resistant to the drugs we've given you." The doctor paused as though collecting his thoughts and then continued, "We like to see success after a single course of induction chemotherapy—that's the medicine you've just finished—but we can sometimes achieve success with a second round." Michael closed his eyes and sank back into his pillow. Informed Consent Even though she had braced herself for this news, Debbie felt a surge of despair. She struggled to keep from crying. She was resolved to do everything in her power to help Michael defeat this goddamned disease, including remaining strong in his presence. "What about a clinical trial?" Debbie asked. "I've considered that," the doctor said, "But there isn't much available for this situation. Even if we identify a clinical trial that's appropriate for Michael, it won't hurt to try an extension of consolidation therapy with some different conventional drugs." "But doctor, you told us that with this type of leukemia, every day counts. Isn't there a better way to give Michael the best chance of beating this thing? I don't think 'conventional' is what Michael ought to be getting." Debbie sensed the doctor's irritation at a patient or family member challenging his recommendation, but he quickly regained his professionally calm expression and gave her a slight smile. "I can assure you that Michael will receive the best care here that is available anywhere. I'd be happy to discuss any possible clinical trials with you once we have the results of the next round of treatment." As he turned to leave, Debbie asked, "What about AP-475? That's being tested right here in this medical center." She quickly consulted her hand-written notes. "The lead investigator is named Margaret Hastings." Dr. McKinley frowned. "Yes, I'm familiar with Dr. Hastings' work, more familiar than is possible by simply reading what's available on the internet. She runs the cancer research program here, and I've already talked with her about Michael. Unfortunately, she has determined that he is not qualified to enter the clinical trial. I'm sorry." "Why? How did she make that decision?" "Mrs. Taylor, Dr. Hastings is a leader in the field of experimental leukemia medicine. I assure you that her judgment is sound." It was clear to Debbie that she was pissing off the doctor, but she didn't care. She stood took a step away from Michael's bed toward the two doctors who had moved to the doorway. She was no longer willing to passively sit and hope. The fear and anxiety she had suffered for over a week was rapidly turning to steely resolve despite her fatigue. "But what about compassionate access? I've been reading that sometimes it can be arranged when a clinical trial is not an option. I want to meet with Dr. Hastings." Dr. McKinley gave Debbie a look she recognized as the type teachers often directed at recalcitrant students. "I don't think that is a good idea. This is very complicated, and there's no precedent for it in a case like this. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have several more patients I need to see." Debbie was surprised by Dr. McKinley's brusque manner, but, she no longer cared what he thought of her. She would fight for Michael no matter what anyone else thought. "It's not so complicated, Doctor. Michael is either going to live or he's not, and you can either help or I'll find someone who will. I plan to see Dr. Hastings in the morning." "Good day, Mrs. Taylor." The two doctors disappeared through the open door, and Debbie stepped back and sank into the chair next to Michael's bed. He reached for her hand and squeezed it gently. Debbie had already finished her research on clinical trials and knew that there were few options and none other than AP-475 that seemed promising. She spent the next hour while Michael was asleep learning how to make a request for compassionate access to an experimental drug. Then she spent the rest of the day on the phone hitting one wall after another, hearing only evasive answers and curt brush-offs from each company representative she called at the firm that made AP-475. To her surprise, the only sympathy seemed to come from an FDA representative who had promptly returned her call, but she explained to Debbie that the agency could do nothing to force a company to provide access to their experimental drugs, if they were unwilling to do so. By evening, she was focused on how best to approach a morning meeting with Dr. Hastings. Sleep was difficult for Debbie despite her exhaustion, and she worked through countless scenarios in her mind. She finally fell into a fitful sleep next to Michael's hospital bed during the wee hours of morning, but awoke long before she had planned to camp, if necessary, outside the doctor's office until she was seen. To her surprise, Debbie was ushered in to see Dr. Hastings within minutes of asking the receptionist is she could fit her into the doctor's morning schedule. Her elation quickly turned to anger when the doctor told her that the clinical trial was not open to her husband and that she would not help her with compassionate access. "Young lady, your husband is not the only leukemia patient who would like to have this drug," Dr. Hastings said. "As I tried to explain, there is nothing we can do. You said yourself the company turned you down. Even if the company had agreed, you'd still have to wait for institutional review board approval, and they only meet once a month." Hastings had a shrill, commanding tone and an irritating, dismissive attitude. Debbie resolved to remain calm for Michael's sake. "Please, isn't there something you can do—try to talk to the company or get him into the trial? This is Michael's last chance?" "I've told you the clinical trial is closed. I'm sorry. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to work." "That's not good enough. You're a doctor. You're supposed to help people." Debbie remembered clearly how Dr. Hastings had stood with her hands on her hips and the cold expression on her face. She had the feeling that time was slowing and she could see everything around her with unusual clarity. She remembered noticing the light reflected in the polished jade earrings the doctor wore and the janitor watching them while he emptied a trashcan just past the doctor's door. She saw the rash on the back of the doctor's hand as it closed around the office doorknob, and she heard the janitor cough. "There is nothing else I can say except that the answer is no. Now please see yourself out. I have work to do." "Bitch!" Debbie had said as the doctor pulled the door shut. Debbie's face had been flushed, her cheeks wet with tears, and her shoulders slumped with fatigue as she left Dr. Hastings' office and walked into the hallway leading from the research building to the hospital. As she got on the elevator, she vaguely noticed the janitor squeeze in behind two research technicians and an overweight guy wearing a tie. The elevator had made several stops with people entering and leaving, and by the time it reached the basement, Debbie and the janitor were the only remaining riders. When the doors opened, Debbie walked the short distance to the hospital cafeteria, bought a cup of coffee and sat alone at a table in the corner. She put her face in her hands and leaned against the tabletop with steam spiraling up from her Styrofoam cup. Someone walked to the side of her table and stopped, but she didn't look up. "I overheard you talking to that bitch, Hastings." She had glanced up quickly and was surprised to see the janitor, but she remained silent, not interested in striking up a conversation with a stranger. He pulled out a chair and sat at the table across from Debbie. "I'm Simon Hartwell." She remembered staring at him blankly and then saying quietly, "I'd like to be alone please." He had said nothing at first as he sipped his coffee and gazed at her. She noticed his eyes flit from the swell of her breasts to the diamond ring she was absent-mindedly twisting around her finger. "So, who's sick?" Simon asked. "Somebody gotta be sick 'cause the coffee here ain't good enough unless you got no choice." Debbie looked down at her cup. She hadn't like the way this man leered at her. "If I was a doctor, you'd talk to me." Debbie said nothing. She stood and looped her purse over her arm. "You ought to be nice to me, if you want AP-475," he said. The surprise was obvious on Debbie's face. She sat down slowly. "What do you mean?" "First, tell me who's sick. You got a kid in the hospital?" Simon didn't try to hide his visual appraisal of Debbie's body. "It's my husband. He has leukemia," Debbie said with a tired sigh. "We've been here a week, and he's just getting worse. The treatment they're giving him isn't working." "Too bad." Simon was smiling. "Good thing you met me." Debbie had been repulsed by his gleeful look, but had forced herself to look him in the eye as he leaned closer. "I can get most anything, including that drug you want," he whispered. "At least if I get paid." "How can you get it?" "This ain't a good place to talk. Follow me outside to where they smoke." Debbie walked behind Simon as he led the way out of the building. There were no smokers to overhear their private conversation. "Did you see that redhead we passed in the hall? The stuck-up bitch looks right past me like she's too good for a janitor. What she don't know is, by next week, I'll be in a new city with new business partners that won't guess Simon Hartwell ever was a janitor. Nope. In two more days, I'll have everything I need from the lab supply room, and then I won't be working for that bitch Hastings no more." Debbie wasn't interested in Simon's plans or his likes and dislikes. He made her nervous standing too close and staring at her chest while he talked. "How can you get AP-475?" He had regarded her as though amazed at her naiveté and smirked as he said, "Steal it. I got keys to lots of places, including that bitch's office and cold storage room. I've made a nice little business for myself with those keys. I make a hell of a lot more than those tight ass nurses, that's for damn sure." Debbie had never stolen anything, and her first instinct had been to simply walk away. But even a remote chance of helping Michael held her back. "How much do you want for it?" "I don't need money. I got all the money I want, and I'll be getting lot more soon." Debbie looked confused. "But you said you want to be paid?" He laughed and stepped closer. "You didn't even look at me on the elevator, and you didn't want to talk to me in the cafeteria. You're like the rest—just because you're a pretty bitch, you think you can treat me like I'm a nobody? I'm finished with that shit. Soon, I'll be able to buy any bitch I want." Simon stroked her cheek with the tip of one finger. "The pay I want is you—for an hour." Debbie stepped back so quickly she almost tripped. "Go to hell," she hissed as she turned to leave. "How you gonna feel once he's dead? Ain't your husband worth an hour of your time?" Simon leaned against the wall and smiled with the confidence of someone who has no doubts about what the near-term future holds. Debbie paused and tried hard to control her emotions. She took a deep, calming breath to suppress a wave of nausea. He had said exactly the right thing to get her attention, and she was paralyzed by wanting both to walk away and to stay and barter. She clenched her jaws and took another deep breath. "How do I know you can really get me the drug?" "I'll show it to you before I fuck you. After an hour, it's yours." He stepped closer and looked into her shining blue eyes. "Take a day and think it over if you want." "No. Michael needs it today." "So, name's Michael, huh? You gonna tell him about trading your pussy for his medicine?" Debbie didn't answer. She detested what this man was saying, but dared not offend him. He might be Michael's only hope for life. "Okay, meet me at Hastings' office at 7 o'clock tonight," he had said. "She don't work past six, and her students go home once she leaves. I'll show you the drug, but you ain't getting it 'til after. Deal?" "Yes." Debbie had turned and walked away without looking back. Her heart had raced and her mind was foggy as she made her way back to the hospital wing where Michael was sleeping. Michael had been awake and in pain when Debbie got to his room. He smiled weakly when she kissed his forehead. She sat in her usual place after the nurse administered more pain medicine and leaned closer when he mumbled something she couldn't understand. "I'm sorry, Deb. So sorry." "Shhh. Rest." Michael eventually he fell into a deep sleep with Debbie holding his hand. His pale face and shallow breathing frightened her, but she knew the nurses and doctors could do little more than they had already done. She stroked his cheek gently and bent over to kiss his forehead. Her eyes glistened with tears. She said another prayer for Michael, but heard only silence from heaven. By seven o'clock, Debbie knew that she could and must go through with barter deal with Simon. She clenched her fists in grim resolve. "I love you Michael. Everything will be okay." * * * When Simon unlocked the door to Dr. Hastings' office, Debbie was still shivering. He guided her to the edge of the doctor's big desk and dropped the orange bag in the chair behind it. He kept one hand on Debbie's shoulder and looked around the room. "So, what's first?" he asked with a grin. "Should I do you on the bitch's desk, or should we leave a wet spot on her ugly Oriental rug?" Debbie stared without speaking. He bent toward her and said, "Your tits look cold. Let's warm them up a bit before we make that decision." He took one of her nipples into his mouth and circled it with his tongue, then moved to the next one. Despite a sense of disgust at what she was doing, Debbie's breathing quickened as he bit lightly on her nipple and ran a hand roughly across her belly. He looked up and asked, "Desk or rug? Which one would Michael choose?" "Leave my husband out of it." Debbie glared at Simon. "Let's get this over with." "Feeling feisty, are you? Maybe we should make a video so you can show your husband what he's missing. A sex show might perk him up." Debbie's pent-up rage erupted, rage fueled not only by Simon's taunts but also by the accumulated stress and anxiety of the past week. She slapped his face, and then almost laughed at the look of shock on his face. But her urge to laugh died quickly when he lunged toward her. "You fucking bitch." Debbie backed away and turned to run, but she wasn't quick enough. He grabbed her arm and spun her around. With one hand wrapped in her hair, he stepped behind her and bent her over the desk, forcing her face against the cool wood surface. She could hear him unbuckling his belt with the other hand, and she tried unsuccessfully to twist away from him. "Hold still, goddamn it." She heard his zipper and the rustle of fabric as he pushed his pants to his knees with one hand. Despite her struggles, he easily held her against the desk. "I should punch you for slapping me, but instead I'll just give you an ass spanking." Debbie felt a sharp smack on her bare buttocks as Simon hit her with his open hand. She squirmed more vigorously to get away, but he held her tightly, and a second blow quickly followed the first. It wasn't until the third slap that Debbie realized he wasn't physically hurting her, just holding her down and spanking her as though she were a naughty child. His hold on her had loosened, and her instinct was to break his hold and run away. But, the memory of Michael lying in bed, so sick and weak, prevented her from moving. Her husband was suffering—maybe dying. What was her suffering in comparison? She would do anything to save his life, even this. She closed her eyes and imagined Michael's gentle arms around her, and her feeling of panic diminished. She saw his smile and remembered the music of his laughter. Yes, she would do what was necessary to get him the medicine that might save him. Simon slapped her one last time and began to explore her body with his fingertips, moving over her soft skin with a demanding but surprisingly gentle urgency. He stroked from her buttocks along her back in a slow caress and slid his hand along her ribs to fondle her breast. "Thank you for not hurting me, Simon. I'm sorry I slapped you." "I suppose you want me to believe I can trust you now?" "Yes, Simon. I agreed to this trade, and I'll keep my end of the deal. I'm just not very experienced at this kind of thing." He laughed. "That's a good one. It seems to me that you're made for fucking, but I ain't ready to trust you just yet." He squeezed her nipple and traced a finger along the side of her face. "Don't really matter though. In another hour, you can brag to your friends that you got fucked by the best," Simon said and licked her neck just below her ear. Debbie tried to stand up, but with his hand on the back of her neck, Simon could easily keep her bent over the desk. He massaged her buttocks with one hand and massaged her neck and shoulders with the other while he ground his groin against her ass. She had dreaded feeling his hardness press against her, but so far his penis seemed to be soft. He slipped a hand between her legs and she felt his fingers move through her soft fur. "You ain't wet." He spit into his hand and Debbie flinched when he rubbed saliva along her slit. "Let's get you nice and wet for me." For Debbie, this intimate encounter was nothing more than a black market transaction, a way to obtain what her dying husband needed to survive. She closed her eyes and hoped the hour would pass quickly. She reassured herself yet again that she was doing the right thing, that it didn't matter that someone other than her husband was caressing her body. Debbie felt Simon's groin rhythmically pressing against her and didn't resist when he pushed her feet further apart. Soon, one of his hands began bumping against her ass as he stroked his cock while he fondled her breast and twisted her nipple with the other. Gradually she began to lubricate as her body responded naturally to the stimulation. Then, he stopped stroking and she felt one of his fingers slide inside her. "That's it. Nice and juicy. Just way I like all my bitches to be." Without looking over her shoulder she could tell Simon had resumed stroking his cock, trying to make it hard enough to penetrate her. Her eyes flew open in sudden panic. "Wait. Use a condom," she pleaded. "You bring one? I ain't got one. Never use 'em." Debbie closed her eyes tightly and fought an urge to struggle or scream. How could she have forgotten to buy condoms? "You'll like my hard dick bareback inside you. Let's go make a wet spot on the rug." He pulled Debbie with him and drew her down onto the Oriental rug. He pushed her onto her back and crawled between her legs, slid his arms under her knees and forced her legs against her shoulders. He pressed his soft but swelling cock against her and forced his tongue between her lips. Grasping her breasts and exploring her mouth with his tongue, he humped rapidly against her crotch and belly. Debbie shuddered in revulsion at the thought of unprotected sex with this man, but remained still as his semi-hard cock bounced against her. "You like that don't you, bitch? Can't wait for me to fill you up." Simon released Debbie's legs and worked two fingers into her pussy while he stroked his hardening cock. "Damn, you're tight." His fingers felt better than she would have imagined they could, just the right pressure and speed, and her breathing quickened as she began to feel aroused despite her preference to feel nothing. "Put my cock inside you now." He guided Debbie's hand to his half-mast erection. Debbie closed her hand around his cock and felt it grow a little larger, but still not fully hard. It was a strange sensation to hold the penis of a man who was not her husband. She noticed how different his odor was from Michael's. Informed Consent "Don't play with it. Take it into your cunt." Simon's hand closed over Debbie's and he moved his cock toward its target. She felt the head rub along her lower lips and prepared for the sensation of being roughly penetrated when Simon suddenly pulled back and cursed. Warm liquid spurted onto Debbie's pussy and lower belly. "Goddamn it!" Simon grunted as his partially erect penis slid along the outside of her labia rubbing his semen along her slit, but without penetrating her. He frantically stabbed at her, forcing himself part way into her vagina. She felt him try to thrust deeper without success. He grasped her wrists and forced her hands above her head. "Take my cock, you fucking bitch," he growled. "Beg for my hard dick, you goddamned slut." He grunted and cursed as his soft cock flopped against her groin. His jaw was tightly clenched and his eyes flashed in anger. Debbie flinched in fear that he would hit her. Instead, he released her wrists, pounded his fist into the rug next to her head, and then simply closed his eyes and rolled onto his back next to her with one hand on her thigh. She saw tears in his eyes and felt both repulsion and an unexpected sense of sympathy for the man. Debbie was uncertain whether to speak or remain silent. She gently placed her hand over his and lay quietly beside him while his breathing slowed. She noticed a cobweb running from the light fixture to the ceiling, and decided that Simon was probably not a very good janitor. "May I take my clothes and medicine now?" she asked. "No." He lay still and said nothing more, but soon he moved his hand to her belly, sliding toward her breasts. When his fingers touched her nipple, she sat up and brushed his hand away. As she began to stand, Simon pulled her back to her knees. "You ain't finished paying yet, and I don't give no discount for my services." He pointed to the wall clock near the mahogany desk, and Debbie saw that only ten minutes had passed since they entered the office. "Please let me go now." "I ain't finished yet. I want your ass before my hour's up. Help me get hard again." He grinned and gestured toward his flaccid penis. "No, please." Debbie tried again to stand, but Simon put a hand on her shoulder. He laughed and stood up. "We have a deal and you still owe me more time," he said and stepped closer to Debbie with his dick hanging in front of her face. "Come on now. Use that pretty little mouth of yours to make me hard again." The fleeting sympathy Debbie had felt for Simon disappeared with the prospect of having to suck his cock, but still nothing mattered except getting the drug for Michael. She took a deep breath and took Simon's soft cock into her mouth. She almost gagged on the taste of semen mixed with his sweat, but she forced herself to swirl her tongue around the head of his penis. For several minutes, her head bobbed and her breasts swung back and forth as she ministered to Simon's cock. His dick responded to her warm mouth and caressing tongue, but it didn't get hard enough for penetration. He put his hands on the sides of her face and began thrusting more forcefully toward the back of her throat. "That's right bitch. Suck my cock. I know you love it." He cursed when his cell phone began ringing, and she thought he would ignore it, but on the third ring, he pulled out of her mouth and retrieved his phone. "What?" he growled. "Now? I'm in the middle of something, goddamn it." He walked away from Debbie and leaned against the desk, his penis quickly reverting to its fully limp state. "Okay, okay, damn it. Tell the fucker to hold onto his ass. I'll be there." Simon picked up his clothes and began dressing. He glanced at Debbie and said, "I got business to take care of, so you ain't gonna get to enjoy my cock up your ass tonight. Give me a call if you want a second date." "So I can go?" "Yeah, go on. You weren't a great fuck, but you did your best." He picked up the biohazard bag containing Debbie's clothes and the vial and tossed it toward her. Without a glance back, walked out of the office, leaving the door ajar. Debbie wanted to wash the smell of Simon off her skin and get the memory of his face and cock out of her mind, but she was more concerned about getting to Michael with the stolen drug. She dressed quickly and took a final glance around the office. She hadn't left anything behind, and there was no sign of her having been in the office, not even a wet spot on the Oriental rug. She turned to close the door as she left, but gasped in alarm when someone touched her shoulder. It was Simon. "What do you want?" she asked, taking a step backward. He handed her a sealed syringe and said, "Look, I might be only a janitor, but I know a few things. You can't give that drug to your husband to drink. You gotta inject it. Have you seen how the nurses give people pain medicine through those tubes hanging from the bags of salt water?" "I think so." "You need to inject the drug into one of those tubes, just like they do. Watch how a nurse gives your husband something that way, and after she leaves the room, just do what she did." Debbie stared at Simon, not sure what to say. "Thanks, I, I. . ." "Forget it. I'm not as big an asshole as you probably think. I hope he gets better." Simon turned and walked away quickly. Staring after him, Debbie briefly wondered about this surprising gesture of kindness, but she didn't have time to think about his motives. She hurried to the elevator thinking of nothing but getting the precious medicine to her husband before more time was lost. Once she had followed Simon's instructions as well as she could, Debbie dropped the empty syringe into the sharps container in the corner of Michael's room and sank wearily into the chair beside his bed. She took his hand in hers and kissed him gently on the cheek. "I wish I could talk with you," she said to her sleeping husband. "I wish you could tell me it's going to be okay." Debbie felt dirty. As much as she wanted to stay with Michael, she couldn't stand the odor of Simon that still lingered on her body or the knowledge that his semen was still on her and maybe even in her. She decided to see if the pharmacy was open on her way out of the hospital so she could buy a morning-after pill. She had heard stories of girls getting pregnant after playing around with their boyfriends when semen got into them even though they didn't have real intercourse. She stood, and tucked the blanket securely around Michael's shoulders, then froze, struck by the sudden realization that she could possibly be pregnant with Michael's child. She couldn't take the morning-after pill if there was a chance she and her husband had conceived the night before Michael was admitted to the hospital. That was only a little over a week ago. She didn't know much about how or for how long the morning-after pill worked, but she didn't want to take any chances. Even if the stolen drug worked and Michael recovered, they would probably be unable to have children together in the future. The doctor had warned them that chemotherapy would make him sterile. Debbie suddenly felt overwhelmed and grabbed the railing of the hospital bed for support. She needed to clear her mind. She couldn't take the risk of harming Michael's child, but that meant she might bear Simon's child. What if he had made her pregnant an hour ago even though he never really penetrated her? She slowly sat down and rested her face against Michael's shoulder. She thought there must be tests and procedures available, but she didn't think she would have the courage to tell anyone what she had done. If she were pregnant, could she bear the child and never seek to know the truth that science could provide? Wasn't the only important truth that if she were pregnant, the child would exist because of her love for Michael? Too many questions to think about tonight while she was so exhausted. She drifted to sleep in the chair next to her husband, her head resting on the edge of his bed. An hour later, she awoke with a start when her favorite nurse, Rachel, gently touched her shoulder. "Debbie, it's almost midnight. Go home and get some sleep. I promise I'll call you if anything changes." Rachel adjusted Michael's blanket. "He's sleeping peacefully, and I'm working a double shift. I'll still be here when you come back." "Okay. Thanks Rachel. I'll be back soon." Debbie slowly stood and leaned over to kiss Michael's cheek. She had done all she could. She said another silent prayer that the stolen medicine now circulating through his veins would bring them a miracle. With tears in her eyes born of sadness and fatigue, Debbie walked through the hospital lobby, past three policemen talking with a nurse and a security guard. As she walked through the glass front doors, she saw several more police cars with their blue lights flashing. A television cameraman was filming an attractive woman in a business suit gesturing toward the yellow police tape behind her. Debbie walked closer to listen. "A police spokesman said the murder appears to be drug related, and in an important update to this breaking story, WMA-3 Television has learned that the victim was 34 year old Simon Hartwell, a hospital employee. Stay tuned for more from your best source for news that matters. This is Paula Kimble reporting for WMA-3 Television." Debbie walked slowly to the parking lot. She couldn't fully process the fact that Simon was dead. She was too tired to think or to feel anything. She slid into the driver's seat, fumbled and dropped her keys into the foot well where they rattled and bounced under the brake pedal. She locked the car door, tilted her seat back, and immediately fell asleep. The bright orange light of early dawn gently roused Debbie out of her dreamless sleep. She contorted her body to retrieve her purse and keys, and soon she was at home standing under a steaming shower with her eyes closed and hot water washing through her long hair and over her face, washing her tears away. Myriad thoughts crowded her mind along with questions she couldn't answer. As the shower began to turn cold, she realized that most of the questions didn't matter. All she really cared about was Michael's life. She turned off the shower just in time to hear her cell phone buzz, but too late to answer it. She quickly dried off and dialed her voicemail, holding her breath as she heard Rachel's voice over hospital noise in the background. "I'm sorry to call you so early, but Michael is awake. He asked for you, and I thought you'd want to know." In less than thirty minutes, Debbie walked through the door of Michael's room and saw that his bed had been tilted so he could sit up. He turned his head toward her and smiled weakly. She rushed to his side, thinking he looked better this morning than he had last night. She grasped his hand and felt him squeeze back. When she bent to kiss his cheek, he turned his head and met her lips with his own. Debbie was careful not to kiss him back too hard and hurt his mouth, which was still full of painful lesions caused by the chemotherapy. "You're beautiful today, Deb," he said as his head sank back into the pillow. He squeezed her hand again. A smile lingered on his lips, and with effort he turned toward her. "I love you Mrs. Taylor," he said softly. "I love you too, Mr. Taylor, and I always will." Looking into his pale face and smiling eyes, Debbie was filled with hope. Was the medicine working already, or was it only a coincidence that he felt better? If it was working, was one dose going to be enough to put him into remission so he could have a stem cell transplant—maybe a cure? She leaned over and kissed Michal again. She knew so little, but she would learn. For now, it was enough to know they loved each other. Today was going to be a good day. ~The End~