You sigh. Your heart is capacious; it contains enough compassion for all the destitute of your city and more besides. But your brain, forged by the bellows of your T14 law school, resists. You know you cannot universalize this behavior. You cannot save them all.

But her eyes are shining.

"Do you have a place to go?"

Tantalizing bits of milky flesh peer from underneath the tatters in her jeans.

"No, sir. Not tonight. It's supposed to get cold, I think. I read it in the paper. People leave papers everywhere. It's fine, but if you could spare something for a cup of coffee, that might help me stay warm."

You sigh again, deeper. Your eyes dance across her lithe body, the fullness of youth refusing to yield in important places. But your heart is good, and your thoughts are pure. This one girl you can save, and save her you shall. It is not right that she be subject to the glances, desires, catcalls, or worse of hearts and hands of men baser than yourself.

"Come with me. I will take you back to my place, get you dressed, give you some food, and we'll find you a shelter. You can't be out here tonight."

Her hazel eyes sparkle, a broad smile spreading across her dry lips, somehow full despite dehydration and exposure.

"Really?"

"Sure. C'mon." You extend your hand.

She hops to her feet, her firm tits fighting against inertia, and winning. She bounds a step toward you, and then back, forgetting to gather what little scraps of nothing she owns. She bends over in front of you. Your eyes can't help but glance at her apple-shaped ass, the denim of her too-small jeans pulled tight. Living without a home may be hard, but it seems to keep you in good shape.

She turns back to you, pulling a few strands of dirty, stringy blonde hair--you imagine that would clean up really well with a little shower and attention-- out of her face, and she nestles against you, utterly trusting, running one skinny, small palm up your chest, then back down, excitedly taking your hand in her own. She's warm.

"Lead the way," she chirps.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1694917&forum_id=2#18428001)

Your place is tasteful, but a bit bachelor-y. It is the sort of place where a woman feels more like an ornament than an inhabitant. But your new guest takes to it immediately.

"Oh, my God!" she coos, wrapping your arm in hers and eagerly pressing her cheek to your shoulder. "I have never been in an apartment like this!"

She spins to look up at you, her lips near your chin, her eyes wide. "Can I look around? I promise that I won't take anything."

"I wouldn't mind if you did, if you needed it."

She looks at you, a furrow parting her sunkissed brow. A quizzical look quickly evolves to mistrust.

"I am a person, y'know. Please don't . . . please don't mess with me. Are you playing some kind of game?"

"No." You grab her by the shoulders, almost mechanically. You can think of nothing else to do. "No, of course not."

"Then why are you doing this?" Her eyes plead to you, and well up, bright with uncried tears. "Is it . . . I can pay you. I don't have money." She lightly grazes your hands on her arms, leading them down her sides and to her waist. "I can pay you though."

"No!" You cry, pulling your arms away.

She yells, now. "Then what! What do you want from me!" Her body trembles, and she collapses against you, pressing her ear against your ribs, pulling on your shirt with cracked nails. "I don't have anything," she sobs.

You stroke her hair, holding her shoulders with your other hand. "And I don't want anything," you respond. "I just want to help. I promise."

She shivers and slowly pulls away from you. Her face is flush with embarrassment.

"Do you have a tissue?" she says, haltingly.

"Of course," you reply, lightly holding her by the shoulders. "Look, go have a seat on the couch. I am going to go get you something to eat and something to drink. And a tissue."

"Sir?"

"Yes?"

"You never told me your name."

"It's Gibreel."

She sighs and breathes in, as if to draw the sound into her lungs and keep it there. "Gibreel," she repeats softly. "I am Magdalena."

"Pleased to meet you, Magdalena."

"Can I . . ."

"What is it?" you ask.

"I don't want to assume."

"You aren't."

"Can I take a shower first? It's been a while." She looks down, pressing her chin into her neck, her full breasts starting to heave. The flush of embarrassment turns darker.

"Of course," you say coolly. "Down the hall, to the right. I have a robe hanging on the door. There are towels, shampoo, conditioner, a razor that my girlfriend used to use . . . I know that's a little gross, but you can use mine. I can put a fresh blade on. I have a new toothbrush . . . ."

Magdalena giggles. "I know how to shower, Gibreel. I can use her razor. Would she mind?"

"I doubt it," you reply. "She left me three weeks ago."

"Oh no," Magdalena says, softly. "Why?"

"I'd rather not--"

"Oh my God, of course, I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Magdalena."

"Maggie."

"Maggie."

"Okay, I am going to go take a bath, if that's okay. Can I stay in there a while?"

"Take your time."

Maggie strains to get onto her toes, pulling on your shirt sleeves, and kisses your cheek gently. "Thank you, Gibreel." She smiles, and turns back toward the hall, beginning to strip off her raggedy t-shirt. You watch, entranced. Her back makes a perfect hourglass down to her ass, in low-rise jeans. Two perfect dimples dot her flesh just above her ass. She is about to have her shirt completely over her head when you come to your sense.

"M-Maggie!" you sputter.

She turns back toward you, her tee shirt now seeming nothing more than a small rag, the bottom hemisphere of each perfect teardrop breast exposed, as well as the rosy pink of a large-ish areola on her right breast, her elbow on that arm being a bit further up. The glimpse you get makes you swallow hard in your throat, and the already full bulge in your pants press insistently for space. She pulls her shirt back down and playfully giggles.

"Just joking." She turns around and walks to the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1694917&forum_id=2#18428585)

but those are all tools to control oneself, and god knows if i could use them effectively or not

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1694917&forum_id=2#18428727)

Your eyes drift past the doorknob of the bathroom down the hall from time to time between absent, uncomprehending stares at the television. Your thoughts wander unbidden to the scene beyond.

Why did you hear her showering--wasn't she going to take a bath? Why did she need to shower? She was shaving, right? But . . . what?

Christ.

Get it together, Gibreel. She can't be more than twenty. She's just a kid. She's on the street, you piece of shit. She's . . . GOD she's fucking hot.

Realizing it does you no good to sit on your couch and obsess, you get up to begin to make some food for the both of you. You open the cupboards, then peer into the freezer, and realize just how pathetic your bachelordom has become.

"Easy Mac, microwave burritos, and vodka. Great."

A few moments later, you close your laptop. Pizza is on the way. You are tempted to engage the pizza tracker and post nonchalantly about how LaRonda has placed your new homeless girlfriend's pizza in the oven at 4:54 p.m., but you think better of it. You generally leave that kind of personal, confessional posting to askav, anyway.

Girlfriend?

By the time the pizza arrives, Maggie is no longer showering. She's bathing. You knock gently on the door.

"Maggie?"

"Yes?"

"Just letting you know, pizza's here."

A silent beat, and then clumsy splashing. Maggie whips the door open, a terry cloth robe held loosely around her torso with one hand. You notice her breasts immediately, porcelain turned rose from the heat of the water: they are large, barely contained, and press insistently against the folds of fabric. Her hair is now radiant gold, and you realize she had been a literal dirty blonde. Her lips are now plump with moisture, and, for the first time, you can smell her without the odors of the street to mask her. She smells like licorice.

Maggie peers at you, her eyes again filling with tears. "Can I . . . can I just have a few more minutes? Is that okay?"

"Maggie, of course."

She smiles at you, tears once held now streaming down her already wet cheeks. "I haven't . . . I haven't had pizza in a really long time." She chokes. "No one has ever bought me that."

You stare, stunned.

"It's just pepperoni and mushroom," you say dumbly.

She smiles, grabbing your hand with hers, wrapping her fingers around your thumb. She drags your thumb underneath her eyes, wiping away her tears.

"Thank you," she almost whispers. "I will be done soon."

"S-sure." You turn around as she closes the door.

Fuck. You've never been this hard.

In a few more minutes, Maggie finishes up. You've already put four slices onto her plate, imagining that she's hungry, and you've poured some soda for her and yourself. You've placed the food on the coffee table, and you have the television playing as she steps out of the bathroom, steam billowing from within and out into the hallway. She is a vision from Cecil B. Demille.

The thin terry cloth robe clings to her wet body obscenely. Her figure is a perfect hourglass; she is curvy but lithe, with the robe cinched tight at her vanishing waist. Her hips sway back and forth as she walks, her smooth, slender thigh parting the opening of the robe at each step. The top half of the robe dips low into her cleavage, her rhythmic breathing lifting her breasts up to form a deep indentation at her clavicle. Her nipples are clearly erect, and you can see a hint of their pinkish color through the sheerness of the fabric. Her large, round hazel eyes peer down at you.

"Is that for me?" she says, her voice mellifluous and high, even childlike, in register. She collapses on the couch next to you, squeezing her feet beneath her perfect ass. Her right thigh is exposed almost entirely to her pussy, and as she reaches forward for her plate her robe shifts.

So she had been shaving.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1694917&forum_id=2#18430169)

http://tinyurl.com/624jqwo

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1694917&forum_id=2#18430328)

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1694917&forum_id=2#18430800)