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I kicked off my shoes, removed my tie and jacket, and fell back on one of the two hotel beds. To say it had been a long day was understating things. I stared at the weird stain on the ceiling, and relished having a minute of quiet time to myself. The Organizational Communication Research Conference was in Memphis this year. I had made the four hour drive yesterday with another doctoral student from Clinton State, Kriti. There were also a few professors at the conference, but they were staying downtown. Even at the ‘special conference rates’ those rooms were far beyond the budget of the typical doc student. We were staying at a Days Inn about a mile away. Separate rooms. Kriti was an international student from India. I liked her almost immediately on meeting her. She was intelligent and serious about her education, but also eternally cheerful and fun. She had a child-like wonder at American culture – things most people took for granted. Like the McDonalds drive-through and Wal-Mart; to her these places were new, exotic, uniquely American experiences. I enjoyed listening to her perspectives, and introducing her to new things, like TV shows or music. We quickly became friends. But there wasn’t much more to it than that. Kriti had a fiancé back home, whom she planned to marry when she graduated. I, myself, had been married for eight years. So, neither of us was a ‘free agent.’ Besides, I was about ten years older than Kriti, who was only twenty-seven, so I figured she just saw me as an nice older guy, maybe like a big brother. That didn’t keep my wife from getting jealous of the time we spent together. She accused me having an affair with the girl until I pointed out how ridiculous that sounded. I mean, sure Kriti was cute as hell. She had a small frame with lovely curves, cinnamon skin, and dimples when she smiled (which was often). But the thought of cheating on my wife had never really crossed my mind. At least not until my wife put it there. After that, I admit, sometimes I did fantasize about it. Like I was doing now, in this hotel room in Memphis. I started to think about Kriti’s apartment where she lived with her roommate. I thought about what it might be like for her to take me back to her bedroom under the pretext of needing to find a text book or something. And maybe her underwear would be lying around, and she’d be a little embarrassed about it. I’d reassure her that she had nothing to be embarrassed about. In fact, she was an attractive girl. One thing would lead to another… I was starting to get hard. What the hell, I thought to myself, I’ve got about an hour to kill. I could hear voices passing outside, but the curtains were drawn. I undid my pants and slipped them off. I felt my erection firming in my hand as I began to stroke my cock. I’d seen Kriti before, dressed in tight jeans and a form-fitting t-shirt that revealed much of her figure. Now I was imagining what she looked like out of them. Lying back on her bed in her bedroom, with her legs spread, pussy damp, inviting… begging… My phone buzzed. I ignored it. It buzzed again. Shit! I picked it up, thinking maybe it was my wife checking up ankara travesti on me and wanting to tell me about her day. So much for my time to myself. If I ignored it now, I’d only get the inquisition later: “Where were you? How come you’re not answering my texts? What were you doing that was so important?” And so on. But it wasn’t my wife. The text was from Kriti. “Hey, Justin. I need your help. Can you come to my room?” My mind immediately jumped back to my fantasies of Kriti naked and spread-eagled on her bed. I felt my cock twitch, and had to remind myself that this was the real world, and whatever Kriti wanted, it probably wasn’t to get fucked by her thirty-seven year old study partner. She probably just needed help connecting her computer to the hotel network or something. “Sure,” I texted back. “What room?” “226.” “K. Be there in a few minutes.” I put on a pair of jeans and a more casual shirt than I’d been wearing at the conference. The clothes made me feel more human. The whole day, I’d been meeting people, attending seminars, and networking in hopes that one of them might want to hire me when I graduated. Kriti and I had given a presentation in the afternoon about the linguistic economies of students in a predominantly Hispanic high school in an economically disadvantaged neighbourhood. We were constantly in the mode to impress, and it seemed like our presentation was successful. We each walked away with a head full of praise and a handful of business cards. But now, hours away from that, I could finally let my guard down a bit, and be more myself. Relaxed. I opened the hotel room door, and stepped out, then stuck my foot in the door before it shut. I double-checked the key card was in the chest pocket of my shirt for maybe the third time. Reassured that I’d remembered the card, I let the door shut behind me. I stood for a minute and admired what view there was. It was near-dark when the sun disappeared, but there was still a little bit of left-over daylight lingering stubbornly in the sky. The air was cool, and I wondered if I should bring a jacket when we went out later. Below me was a parking lot, and beyond that a Denny’s restaurant. In the distance I could see the downtown skyline. Past that, I knew, was the Mississippi River, but I couldn’t see it from where I was. Memphis seemed like a rough place – run down mostly. It was the kind of city that reached its peak decades before I was born, and had since been sliding into blight and poverty. It was a sad, tired place full of people who for the most part seemed resigned to defeat as a way of life. A city like the last light of the day, also left-behind and fading. But we’d been told that it wasn’t all like this. People at the conference told us that we needed to check out Beale Street at night. They promised it was like Memphis’ version of Bourbon Street in New Orleans, one big party. I didn’t know if I wanted to party. I was thinking that staying in, watching a bit of baseball on TV, and having an early night sounded more appealing. Jesus, I was getting old. But Kriti really wanted to go, and I promised I’d go with her. I walked travesti ankara around to the other side of the motel, the part that faced a pool that wouldn’t be in use for another month at least. Arriving at 226, I knocked on the door. It opened to reveal Kriti standing in the same professional-looking grey skirt and maroon blouse she’d worn to the conference. “Hi Justin,” she said, stepping aside. “Come in.” “Thanks,” I said. I entered the room, so much like my own. The door swung closed behind me. On one of the beds was an open suitcase. A lacy powder blue bra hung halfway out of it. Kriti noticed me noticing her undergarment, and quickly went to the bed, tucked everything inside and closed it. “Sorry,” she said, looking embarrassed. “That’s alright,” I said. “I mean, it’s not like it’s the first time I’ve seen a bra.” “Not my bra, though.” She was actually blushing. It was very cute. “No, I guess I haven’t,” I admitted, and suddenly I was picturing Kriti in her bra with matching panties. Trying to will the thought away, I decided to change the subject. “Anyway, what’s up?” “Oh my God, Justin,” Kriti exclaimed, “I really need your help.” “What is it?” “I can’t get this zipper open,” she turned to show me the zipper at the hip of her skirt. “It’s stuck.” “Oh,” I said. “I’ve been trying for, like, an hour,” she said even though we’d only been back at the hotel for maybe thirty minutes at most.”Can you help?” “Umm…” I thought about putting my hands on Kriti – not something I’d ever done before – and then I thought about what my wife would say if she knew. “Come on, Justin,” Kriti pleaded. “I can’t get it to budge. See?” Kriti turned sideways and yanked awkwardly at the zipper. Nothing. “I don’t know who else to ask for help,” she continued. “Alright,” I said. I mean, it was just a zipper. My wife didn’t need to know – she’d only get jealous. It wasn’t like we were making out or anything. It was innocent. Kriti needed my help, and what was I supposed to do, just leave her stuck inside of her skirt? “Thanks,” she said. “Come over here into the light.” I led her over to the sink where the flourescent lights were brightest overhead. I placed my hands on her hips and positioned her sideways in front of me so I was looking at her profile. The top of her head only came up to my chin. I grabbed the zipper between my fingers, and tugged. It wouldn’t budge. It was such a small zipper that I couldn’t get a good grip on the tab. I descended to a kneeling position, unable to help admiring her curves in front and behind. I reached eye-level with the zipper, and tried again. Then I placed my hand firmly on Kriti’s waist to hold her steady. I tried giving the zipper another good hard yank. It wouldn’t move a millimeter. “Wow, it’s really stuck,” I observed. “I told you.” “Isn’t there..? I mean, can’t we..?” I had no ideas. “There’s got to be a way.” I tried again, futilely. Maybe if I had some tools. Like some needle-nose pliers or something. But who packs anything like that for a conference? “Maybe if we untucked your blouse from your skirt,” I suggested. Kriti pulled the dark red fabric from the ankara travestiler waistline of her skirt. “Lift it, so I can see,” I instructed. Kriti held the side of her blouse up. I took a second – not too long – to admire the smoothness of her brown skin. Then I tried the zipper again. It remained jammed. But I could at least hook my fingers inside the waist of the skirt now. “Have you tried, just sliding the whole thing off?” I asked. “No,” Kriti said, looking down at me. “It’s too tight.” “If you, like, suck in your stomach and everything, you know, maybe we can slide it down. It seems a bit looser now.” “I don’t know,” she said. “Can we try?” “Okay.” “On the count of three. You push from the waist, and I’ll try pulling from the bottom. Alright?” Kriti nodded. One… Two… Thee. Kriti pulled in her stomach, and clenched her butt. She was holding her breath and concentrating. Her thumbs were pushing down on either side of the skirt. I grabbed the hemline which was a few inches above her knees and began to pull. The skirt shifted maybe two inches – just enough to reveal the decorative black top of Kriti’s underwear over the first gentle rise of her buttocks – but would go no further. As Kriti stared down at me, there was something in her face. I mean, beneath the embarrassment and frustration, could she be… a little turned on? We’d never been this physically close before, alone together in this room. Pulling at her clothes. My fingers touching her skin… No. I was sure I was just imagining it. Projecting my own dirty thoughts on to her. I told myself to stop it, and tried to put the thoughts out of my mind. “Do you think it would go the other way?” I asked. “Other way?” “You know, like up over your head.” “Are you kidding?” Kriti admonished. She gestured to her chest. Her breasts weren’t huge, but neither were they small. As I considered her frame (a very lovely frame), I agreed, the skirt probably wouldn’t pass that way either. “What am I supposed to do?” she asked, throwing her hands up in exasperation. She went over to the bed and sat down. “It’s okay,” I reassured her, standing up. “We’ll figure this out one way or another. It’s just that the zipper is so damned small. I’m sure I could get it if it were bigger.” “I’m going to have to wear this same skirt through the whole conference,” Kriti complained. “Maybe for the rest of my life.” “Don’t be stupid,” I said. “We’re going to get you out of this.” Kriti lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Her legs dangled over the edge. I considered what it would be like to go over there and lie down next to her, to toss my leg across her. To kiss her, and grab her breast through that maroon blouse. Would she return my kiss, I wondered. Would she do more than that? Quit kidding yourself, man, I told myself. This was just dangerous thinking. Nothing good would come of it. I should just let it go, fix this problem, go back to my room, and jerk one out in private. We’re not anything but colleagues, so keep it professional. “Listen,” I said finally. “Do you care about this skirt?” “What do you mean?” she asked. “I mean, do you care if it gets ripped?” “Ripped?” “I think I can pull apart the zipper, but it would probably damage it.” Kriti sighed. “Okay,” she said. “I mean, I like this skirt, but if it’s the only way…” “Come back over here.” Kriti got up from the bed, and treaded back to where I was standing.