Peeking through the cracked door of an empty clinic, you shouldn’t be watching but can’t look away. A curvy woman in a faded band tee lounges on the exam table, legs crossed at first—until she shifts and her skirt rides up high enough to see black lace panties already damp. The doctor lingers near her hips like it’s an accident, then ‘adjusts’ something that isn’t medical equipment. Her breath hitches when his fingers brush too close to where she’s already wet. No one else is here—no receptionist, no schedule—but they both know someone might walk in any second.
