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The bellman watched the light on the elevator blink down to the mezzanine level. When the door opened, he put his hand over the door to prevent it from closing. It was a needless gesture. Elevators are programmed, knowing the weight of people in there and whether the weight lessened, and know when to close the door. It was more of a chivalrous gesture used by the bellman, designed to hopefully get a tip. Never-the-less, his heart skipped when she exited.

Jennifer Marie Stephenson was a stunner, in a quiet sort of way. A woman in her mid-fourties does not generally turn many heads. Jenny was dressed in dark grey lizard skin Tres Outlaws high heeled boots that zipped up the sides and stopped just below her knees. Jenny could never in her life have afforded these $ 75,000 boots, but she had miraculously found them at a thrift store. Perhaps somebody wealthy had died and their out-of-town relatives were just trying to clear the house.

Her boot cut Levi's broke just above the toe, so it was no evident that the shoes were so outrageously expensive. Her blue button down oxford cloth men's dress shirt must have been custom tailored. The darts in the sides formed the material magnificently around her melon sized breasts.

If you knew how old she was and looked closely, you could spot the starting of crow's feet in the corners of her eyes. Her reddish brown hair was streaked with blonde highlights so as to camouflage the few gray strands that had started. Her long hair was pulled back from her face and braided in the French braid fashion so all of it was pulled back tight against her face. The tail was coiled tight and pinned against the back of her head with a green jade butterfly. Without her wire frame glasses, she would have easily passed for a ballerina. With them, one could easily make the connection that she was once a college professor. Her double strand of pearls swayed slowly from side to side and her perky breasts bobbed like manometers, keeping track of the clicking and clacking of her high heels across the honed limestone floor.

She drug a small travel bag behind her, holding the extended handle and letting the wheels whine behind her. She kept her small clutch purse between her ribs and elbow. She did not respond to the bellman's greeting as she passed him. She was deep in thought about why she was here.

She had an hour or so to kill before she took the shuttle to the Mayo Clinic. She had stopped on the mezzanine because they had a row of marble topped desks with bar-stool seating along the open side of the mezzanine that had a view down to the lobby. From there she could work on her computer and spot the shuttle when it stopped.

Jenn pulled her laptop out of her bag and plugged it in. She was trying to set up another appointment for her husband. She was there to get advice about her granddaughter's condition. She had come down with a rare form of leukemia that did not seem to respond to any of the treatments her current doctors were using. Jenny was searching the internet for additional doctors that might be able to treat both her husband and her granddaughter.

Jenn pulled out her flash drive with the excel spreadsheet. She had a list of names of different specialists that she was using for cross-referencing to new results on the internet. But something wasn't right. The hotel computer seemed to be rejecting or not recognizing her flash drive.

"Can I help you, ma'am?" she heard come from beside her.

"Pardon me?" she said, not sure how to respond.

She looked to her right. An immense black man, dressed in a suit and tie was sitting at the station next to her.

"I noticed you're having a little trouble getting your flash drive to load up. Can I help?"

"Oh, thanks. I don't know what I did wrong." She said, not knowing whether to engage the man or not.

He reached over and took the USB out of the computer. "Let the thing boot up completely before you stick that thing in the slot." He said. It was a cheerful comment. She was so used to her husband and his condescending attitude; she usually would not accept anybody's help.

"Thanks." She said; embarrassed that the solution might be so simple. They waited. The screen went blank, then slowly came back to life. She stuck the USB back into its slot. Another window popped up, asking whether to open the new device. She clicked on it. Up came the directory of the USB. "It's going to work. Thanks again so much." She said as she kept her eyes on the computer.

"No problem, Mrs. Stephenson." The big black man said.

"How ... how ... how did you know my name?" she said, trying to conceal her alarm.

"Your bag, Mrs. Stephenson. It says your name and where you're from."

"Oh, you had me stumped for a second."

By then, her spread sheet had booted up. The black man could see her excel list and the search for doctors showing up on google...

"You know, miss, I work for a very well known man myself. I bet he could fix whatever medical problem you are having."

Jenny looked up. Then she looked back at the computer screens. She realized what he had seen. "What doctor do you work for? What is his specialty?"'

"Oh, I don't work for a doctor. I work for a faith healer. He's Doctor Sam Cromwell."

"Oh, well, thanks anyway. I'm here to see some doctors at the Mayo Clinic. I hope I haven't insulted you."

"Thanks; no problem. Here's his card. We will be going through Kansas City in a few days. If you still don't have the answers you need, you can look us up. This is his card. Here's mine. You can use my number to find out where we are and what we're doing." He said as he got up to leave.

"Thanks again," Jennifer said as she turned back to her computer.

When the man had left, Jennifer did a search of the name; Dr. Sam Cromwell. It was interesting. He was older than her. He had come from some innocuous country in Africa. He had come to the U.S. to play soccer. He was so fast, he was asked to run on the local college track team. From there, it was only a matter of time until the football team wanted him. He played both offense and defense; wide receiver and safety. From there, he played in the pros until he lost interest.

After burning out in football, he tried boxing. Nobody wanted to box a black man that was 6'-8" tall; 250 lbs. and could run 400 meters in 45 seconds. He tried MMA for a while and was one of the top fighters, but either lost interest or was making too much money to want to spend the time with it. Somehow, because of the place he was from, he became notorious for being able to heal people. People, mostly superstitious, seemed to be miraculously healed from all kinds of outrageous unexplained maladies. Many of his teammates, who had been injured, seemed to be able to come back from problems that usually ended other careers. Jenny was skeptical. She let it go. It was an interesting story.

In fact, she vaguely remembered his name from her days on the college track team. Now that she thought about it, she had been in some other meets where he was present; conceited and overly self-confident was her assessment of him at the time.

The shuttle was arriving. Jenn shut down the computer and took out her USB. She went to the Clinic and saw several doctors. They did not seem to be able to handle her granddaughter's particular leukemia. Her husband's injury seemed to be permanent. Nothing could be done, according to the x-rays they viewed.

Jenny was disappointed but not surprised. Her trip had been paid for by her fellow workers. Now it was time to go back. She hated her job, but there were some decent people there. She had been a professor of art history at the local college, but her husband's injury had caused her to miss enough work that she had been dismissed.

They had soon lost their medical coverage. Their savings were almost gone. She had been forced to find work somewhere. Nobody needs a professor of art. Teaching in high school didn't pay enough to cover everything. She had been a waitress in college and been able to get decent tips, but that was over twenty years ago and before she had children.

Reluctantly, she had gone to a bar; "Guitars and Cadillacs," to see about a job. She didn't like it. It was plain as soon as she went in that she would not like it. She had to hold her nose to walk in. It was a nice enough place, but the women's dress was revolting to her. She would not dress in her working clothes when she left the house. She kept a locker there, and changed there so as not to anger or upset her husband any more than necessary.

Jenny made good tips; almost as good as being a college professor. They liked her cut off jeans; lizard skin high heeled boots and thin tank top which stopped just below her breasts. She was particularly incensed by the requirement that on weekends they did not let her wear a bra. On the other days, the other girls wore quarter cup bras. They were so low cut that their nipples were clearly outlined in the thin fabric. Jenn had deep moral objections, but needed the money. She tried not to offend the customers, but sometimes it was hard. It was particularly hard to keep a smile when somebody pulled her down on their lap when she set drinks on the table. With a tray full of drinks, she had to keep her tray balanced. If she spilled any drinks, she still had to pay for them. Throwing the whole tray at them was out of the question.

Jenny's blood would drain from her face when they pulled her down on their laps. Even more so if one of them kept his hand under her. She could feel the fingers at her crotch; enraging her. "Get the fuck over it." She would tell herself. It was a little less insulting when they left a huge tip. "I'm a fucking, glorified whore." She would say to herself when she picked up a $ 20.00 or a $ 50.00 tip.

Some of the trucks that came in were worth as much as their house; big diesel trucks with custom paint and oversize tires. Jenny just gritted her teeth as she felt the hands worming around under her; searching for a way into her short, tight cutoffs.

Sometimes, the younger men weren't that attracted to her, but many of the men were older than her. They appreciated a woman of her age that was just as good as the 21-year-olds. In fact, they liked her more. Somehow, her reluctance seemed to attract them even more. She was different and they knew it.

One night, she got a call. It was Jim, the big black man who had approached her on her trip to Minnesota. They were going to be in town over the weekend. No, she couldn't skip work to go to the revival. He had offered to meet her at their hotel. "Bring your granddaughter." He had told her. "What could it hurt?" she thought to herself.

Jenny called her daughter; Dakota, and asked if she needed a baby sitter Saturday afternoon. Okay, she would be by. She picked up Samantha, her granddaughter, saying she was going to take her swimming. Jenn showed up at her daughter's house. Her husband would be okay for a couple hours by himself. Dressed in her one-piece suit and beach robe over it, Jenn took the little girl to the city pool. She took her to the kiddie pool and played with her in the shade.

About 3:00pm, she took the girl and drove to Jim's hotel. She called him on her cell phone to say they were there. By the time she had parked, Jim was waiting in the lobby.

"Glad to see you, Mrs. Stephenson." He said as he extended his hand to shake hers.

"Thank you, glad to see you too," she said as she smiled nervously. "What next?" she wondered.

"Men always want to fuck. Is he going to take me up to his room and try to fuck me over my desperation about Samantha's condition?" she wondered.

"Dr. Cromwell is upstairs. We have a few minutes. You have nothing to lose. Come on up. You won't be here long."

Nervously, Jenny held Samantha's hand as they rode up the elevator. It seemed to take forever. She was a little numb and didn't remember the conversation. Like a robot, she followed Jim down the hall. Jim held the door open and she entered, trying not to show any fear.

The inside of the suite was like a mansion. It was a suite of rooms. There were two bedrooms off of the living area to the left, and two more bedrooms to the right. The view over the river was magnificent. The entry was through the kitchen area. In front of the kitchen area was a long marble dining table. In front of that was the main living room. It had a long white couch; possibly 8'-0" long and a Mies Van Der Rohe chair at each end, forming the sides of a square. Centered on the couch was a white glass coffee table.

The man sitting at the center of the couch was a giant; a big black giant. He was dressed in a white robe. His hair was almost shaved on the sides. The top of his head was a woven Mohawk. He looked frightening. Jenn wanted to turn and run. "They're going to fuck me if I stay." She said to herself. She turned to leave. She felt a hand on her shoulder. "You're going to be okay, hon." She heard Jim say. In a sense, maybe she had no choice. He led her over to one of the side chairs.

"Doctor, this is Mrs. Jennifer Stephenson. I met her in Minnesota, on her way to the Mayo Clinic. I think the little girl has a problem. Can you help her?"

The big black man looked at her. He didn't speak. He looked down at Samantha. "He's going to want to fuck me." She screamed to herself. "I should have fucking known better than to come here."

"Come here, little girl." He said in a soft voice and extended his arm; palm up." Samantha was too naive to be afraid. She walked over to the doctor and held up her cloth doll. "I'm, Samantha, and this is my friend; Amy."

The doctor smiled and placed his hand on her head. He closed his eyes and turned his head up, looking to the ceiling. Jennifer could see his complexion change. He slowly began to show a sheen of perspiration. He trembled a little and then took his hand off of her head.

"Take her home. Take her to the doctor tomorrow and run his usual tests. If she isn't better, call Jim." He waived his hand; dismissing them. Jenn took Samantha's hand; thanked the men for their time and hurried out the door. Jim followed to make sure she got to her car okay.

"Thanks again." She said as she strapped herself into the driver's seat.

"Let me know." He said as he waved at them as they drove off.

It was the weekend, so Jennifer could not take Samantha to the doctor until Monday. It was short notice, but with the girl's condition, the doctors were willing to see her whenever Jennifer or Dakota brought her in.

Doctor Bernstein was polite at first, but then seemed to turn almost hysterical when the blood tests came back. "I've never seen anything like this." He said. "Could our original diagnosis have been wrong? She has no signs of leukemia now. Please bring her back in a month. I want to have some other doctors look at her again. I don't know what I might have missed."

Jennifer took Samantha home and didn't say anything to her daughter about the visit. She refused to believe that anything could have been healed the way she saw it. She called Jim, but by then they were gone from the city.

She still refused to get her hopes up for the next month. At the next visit, there were a dozen doctors. The blood tests had been sent in the week before and x-rays, an MRI had been done. The doctors were reviewing all the information.

"We are stumped," Dr. Bernstein said. "There is no evidence that the leukemia was ever there. Please come back in another month. Whatever you're doing, keep doing it." Jennifer left. She took Samantha home and told Dakota about the results. Maybe now, Dakota could get her job back too. Her daughter could go back to school and she would not have to be a full time caretaker.

Jennifer pulled the card out of her purse with Jim's name on it. She could barely contain herself as her cell phone rang; once; twice; three times. He wasn't there? "Hello; Mrs. Stephenson, how are you?" the familiar voice answered.

"Great ... great ... great. I ... I ... I had to call you to tell you ... to ... to thank you for what you did for me. My granddaughter, Samantha, is cured. She has no signs of the leukemia that have been with her for so long."

"You're welcome, Mrs. Stephenson. I'm glad Dr. Cromwell could be of help to you."

"Jim; sir; could ... could you help me one more time? I ... I ... I'm desperate. My husband, Jonathan is also not doing good. It would be an absolute miracle if you could help out." She said.

"Sure, Mrs. Stephenson. But they are moving me to make plans for a European trip. I will be out of the country for a while. I will have to replace my phone for one that works in Europe. I will give you another number. His name is Joe; Joe Walters. He should be able to help you. If you have a hard time reaching him, I can text you the address. Good Luck."

"Yes ... yes ... Oh, thank you so much." The phone clicked as he hung up.

Jenny called several times, but only got a recording. Jenny was desperate. She saved the text message and number to her contact list. Thinking it was not going to be a long trip, she called to get a week off from work. She booked two flights; for herself and for her husband. She could hardly contain her excitement while making her reservations. She did not tell her husband; he wouldn't believe her story and probably wouldn't participate if he knew about it.

"We're going to see if we can get you treated." Was her story to explain where they were going and what they were doing. It was going to take most of her savings for the trip, and she was also jeopardizing her job to leave like this; but she was desperate.

They flew to Seattle; then to Vancouver. They took a ferry to Vancouver Island. She booked a room at the Fairmont Empress. It was the same hotel that Dr. Cromwell was booked at for the week. She knew once she was there, he would not turn her away; would he?

The bellman opened the door to their room. He tried to act casual; to not stare at her. What a contrast; a man in his late fifties and in a wheelchair, pushed by a woman who looked half his age. Was this his daughter? The woman was a stunner. It was hard to tell whether she was a professor or a stripper. Jenny's immaculate manner of dress and composure indicated a very dignified woman with some sort of professional background. On the other hand, her long, reddish brown hair was combed out with little braids at her temples that were pulled around behind her head; keeping the long tresses pulled out of her face. That along with her large silver hoop earrings suggested a woman who was closer to a stripper or waitresses' background.

Jenn pushed her husband's wheelchair into the room. She was not focused on the stock speech the bellman made as he walked through the room turning lights on and opening doors. She gave him the customary tip and shut the door. "this is a fantastic room, honey. Are you sure we can afford this; with all the other expenses we have?" her husband said as he pulled open the patio door and rolled himself out on the cantilevered deck. Jenn walked up behind him, put her hands on his shoulders and together admired the view of the hundreds of sailboats, yachts, and cruise ships in the harbor below.

"Hopefully, all these bills will be behind us if we can see the doctor." She said. What makes you think this doctor can fix me after all the other specialists we have seen?"

"He fixed Samantha. She has no leukemia now. Half of our bills are gone now. Dakota can go back to work now. Things seem to be looking up." She sighed.

Her phone started vibrating. "Hello?" she said. She was excited. Joe Walters' name showed up on the phone.

"Yes ... yes ... I was hoping you ... Dr. Cromwell would be able to help me again. Yes ... yes ... we are here on Vancouver Island now. Yes ... yes ... we are even in the same hotel. Okay ... we will be her when you get here." She hung up; not being sure how the conversation had gone. Jim had been very friendly and cordial. This new voice; of Joe, was much more reserved. He did not seem nearly as friendly.

"One of the doctor's assistants is coming over to speak to us. He should be here soon." Jenny said nervously.

"You sound upset, hon. What's the matter?"

Jenny thought about all the bills coming due. She thought about how her husband's health had cost her the job that meant so much to her. "So much is riding on this trip, hon. He fixed Samantha. I am sure he can help you. I ... I ... I don't know. So much is riding on this trip."

Jonathan was sick of this experience too. He had gone from a hard working person to a helpless invalid; not being able to do so many things he used to do.

Jenn almost jumped when she heard the knock on the door. She rushed over to open it. When it opened, she was a little shocked to see who he was. Joe was just about as big as Dr. Cromwell; about 6'-8" or so. It was easy to see why he was hired to be a body guard / assistant. He looked like he could still play in the NFL also; slim but extremely well muscled. He was dressed in a dark suit. His hair was almost shaved on the sides. The top was a faint Mohawk, like some of the MMA or professional soccer players used.

"Please come in. Mr. Walters, this is my husband, Jonathan. Jonathan, honey, this is Mr. Walters ... Joe Walters; Dr. Cromwell's assistant." The trip to see Dr. Cromwell went so well, my granddaughter is no longer sick."

"Well, Mrs. Stephenson, it's kind of like; one miracle to a family. Dr. Cromwell needs to help as many people as possible. It hardly seems fair to fix everybody in your family and not treat others; don't you think?" Jenny was crushed. Her world; her hopes were crashing in on her.

"Yes ... yes ... t ... there are so many people who need help. It would be presumptuous for us to get so much. Isn't there some way for an exception? Samantha, our granddaughter is technically not part of "our" family. Just please consider me and my husband. I have lost my job over this. So has he. It would be such a huge benefit for us to be free of this."

The tall black man sat on the bar stool in front of the kitchen bar counter. He seemed to be ignoring her. He looked at his cell phone and studied it. He turned it off and thought. He looked at Jennifer. His eyes studied her.

Jenn was uncomfortable with his eyes. She recognized the look; but this was no time to be outraged. Suddenly she was back in Guitars and Cadillac's; dressed in her thin braless tube top; short, short denim cutoffs and lizard skin boots. She was there, with a tray in her hands and on somebody's lap as the fingers below her were searching. Only now, it was not for a $50.00 tip.

Now, there were thousands of dollars at stake. There was the house mortgage, a potential return to her professor's job and her husband's potential return to work. She recognized the stare and reluctantly met it.

Nothing was said. She knew what he wanted. She was desperate; cornered.

"M ... M ... Mr. Walters; you know how much this means to us. Isn't there any way you can get my husband to see Dr. Cromwell?" She knew there was, now. She had a pretty good idea what the "no-charge" price was going to be.

"Well, Mrs. Stephenson, perhaps you can convince me to make an exception. Dr. Cromwell may not make the connection between you, Samantha and your husband. Convince me I should jeopardize my future with this man."

Jenn looked him in the eye, knowing full well what was on his mind. Nervously, she looked over at her husband. "I ... I ... I don't know. Can ... can ... can we go somewhere else to discuss this?"

"No, you fucking can't Mrs. Stephenson. You are trying to make a deal with me. If your husband is to benefit from this; from what you may do, he needs to know. He cannot skate through life free of all injuries or sickness and accuse you of being a whore. How about it Mr. Stephenson? Are you going to permit your beautiful wife to whore herself out for your benefit?"

Jon had caught on, but did not want to be in the middle of it. He would have preferred to not know. It could have gone easier between them. He looked at his wife and back at Joe, before looking down. Silently, he raised his hands in a gesture of futility. " what choice do I have?" his expression seemed to indicate.

"That's no fucking good you pussy. You fucking tell her what you want her to do. She needs your permission."

Joe couldn't seem to find his voice. Slowly he shook his head; looking at the ground.

"Do it." Came out as a whisper; hardly audible to anybody in the room.

"Say it you cocksucker. Tell her. Tell her she can whore herself out for your benefit. Are you a good cocksucker, Mrs. Stephenson? Tell her she is a good cocksucker and can make it well worth my time to make you well. Tell her you prick."

There was a long silence. "Tell him to go fuck himself, honey." Her mind screamed. She was close to opening the door to tell Joe to go fuck himself. Instead, she saw his bowed head bob slowly in an "okay" type of gesture.

"Do it honey." It was louder now. She could hear it. He cleared his throat.

"You ... you ... I want ... You have my permission to whore yourself out." His head started to rise as he looked back and forth from him to her. His voice was changing. Perhaps it echoed the years of frustration on his part. Perhaps it was frustration that this act she refused to perform for him was now to be bestowed on a stranger.

"You have my permission to ... to ... fuck or suck him off. Mr. Walters; I have no idea whether she is a good cocksucker. Maybe she was good before we married; I don't know. I do know that she does anything well that she puts her mind to. Jennifer, honey, you have my permission to do that stuff; to ... to ... suck him off."

Jennifer was crushed. Her world was spinning. Goosebumps rushed from her feet up her body and up the back of her neck. This was the most vile think she could think of. And her husband ... Her husband was insinuating that perhaps she was good at it; that she might have done it with others?"

She was resigned to perhaps doing something in the dark; even with a stranger; somewhere else, discretely for so much at stake. But with the blessing of her husband? Her body shook. Jenn tried to collect herself. She took several deep breaths.

"Very well; how do you want this?" she asked, trying to retain as much dignity as possible.

Joe looked at her. He took out his cell phone and one-handed a text message. Was it urgent, or was he just trying to collect his thoughts and conceal his satisfaction for this unexpected windfall in intimidation. He looked up, seeming somewhat distracted.

"Well, young lady; let's see what we've got. "Come over here and sit next to me. Let's see you strip." He said as he put his cell phone down on the counter top next to him. Jennifer was standing. Nervously, she crossed her arms in front of her. Her tapping of the fingers of one hand on her other forearm gave away her nervousness. She glared at her husband for a second; gathered herself and walked over to the bar stool next to Joe. She sat down; trying to calm her nerves. "Just fuck him and get it ove rwith." She told herself.

"Can't ... can't this be done somewhere else? Can't we just go to your room? Can't I,,,, maybe take my husband down to the hotel café or lobby? You are going to kill him. Can't you please give us some dignity?" Jenny's eyes were red and her lip was quivering.

Jim stared at her, saying nothing. She knew her begging was useless.

"You know, young lady, that if you are going to give a first class blowjob, there are a few things you need to do. If you haven't done this with your husband, he will be excited to see how fast you learn. In fact, he may need to give you some instructions. Let's show him what he's been missing. But before we start, you will have to fix yourself. Your hair is beautiful, but it is going to mess up his view. Please fix it up like the pictures Jim sent me. Your hair looks spectacular when it is fixed like this. He held out his cell phone. Jim had somehow taken her picture when he was fixing her computer on her previous trip. It was the French braid done up in a bun on the back of her head.

Her mind was on procrastinating as much as possible. Perhaps God would strike her dead before this was over. She was staring at her husband as she pulled the small braids at her temples free and combed them out. She tossed her hair over the back of her barstool and began combing it out. She may have been oblivious to the fact that both men were staring at her perky breasts; pointing straight up at the ceiling as she began braiding her hair. She grabbed bunches of hair and began weaving them; gathering more as the braid wound itself towards the back of her head. Once she at the base of her neck, she looked imploringly at Jim; hoping he might feel some empathy for her and change his mind. She pulled the braid around in front of her and wove it to the end. She pulled a rubber band out of her purse and tied off the end. She wound the braid around itself at the top of her neck into a tight, ballerina type of bun and stuck a wooden pin through it.

The easy part was over. She crossed her arms in front of herself again, tapping her fingers as she struggled with the next progression of the command: to strip. She had a short, bolero type of denim jacket on. It had long sleeves but the hem barely went below her breasts. "I have to be sure that Dr. Cromwell is going to see my husband." She said. It was a subtle effort to achieve some sort of control; to get him to make some kind of promise. It is the subtle kind of thing women do; whether consciously or not.