Dr. Harlan adjusted his white coat, the stethoscope dangling around his neck as he closed the door to the examination room with a soft click. Outside, in the waiting area, he could hear the faint chatter of the little boy—maybe five or six—playing with a toy car on the floor, his mother having instructed him to stay put while she got 'checked.' The woman on the exam table, Sarah, a 32-year-old mother of two, shifted nervously on the paper-covered surface. She was a vision of everyday allure: 5'7" with soft curves from motherhood, full C-cup breasts straining against her simple blue blouse, wide hips hugged by maternity-style jeans that accentuated her rounded ass. Her shoulder-length blonde hair framed a flushed face, blue eyes wide with a mix of fatigue and apprehension, full lips parted slightly. She'd come in complaining of vague abdominal pains, nothing serious, but Dr. Harlan's mind had wandered during her intake, fixating on the way her blouse gaped at the collar, revealing a hint of lace bra.