Foreign Exchange
by Laura ()
Eliana pulled her scarf tight against the cold. Her home in Brazil was so much warmer. But she could not pass up the opportunity to come to Columbia for her MFA. Never mind that English was her fifth language. Never mind that the language made less sense than Latin, her third language. To her, any English word, even "infrastructure," was poetry. Because English was the language of him.
The man called Neal.
Eliana had come across Neal Pollack's writing many years ago, when her family received a vase they had bought on EBay that was cushioned with pages from the Chicago Reader. Even at 16, she had immediately recognized the article as genius. She read it every night, and even though she had committed it to memory long ago, she carried it with her everywhere she went. Now, six years later, she had it tucked inside her pocket as she began her second semester of graduate school.
Eliana was a studious girl, and looked the part. Her dark hair, thick and wavy, was always pulled into a bun. She worked part-time at the public library, but the money was not enough to buy the stylish glasses she saw on so many of her colleagues. Instead, she wore plastic tortoiseshell frames around thick, scratched lenses. And, although she was Brazilian and accustomed to openly flaunting her naturally tight, dark body, the change in climate made her favor baggy, woolen sweaters.
Despite her physical prudishness and single-minded devotion to her studies, Eliana had found a boyfriend in New York. She wasn't sure if she loved him, but he seemed very devoted to her, and had many writing connections. She knew, though, the relationship couldn't last. Growing up in Rio de Janeiro had taught her a thing or two about recognizing closeted gays. His name was Jonathan.
Still, their relationship was good for now, so she didn't notice the man watching her as he leaned against the wall outside her classroom.
"Hey," he said.
He was well-dressed, she noticed, in a smart leather jacket and tailored silk shirt. Thick brown hair curled out of his open collar.
"Glad to have you," he said. Oh, Eliana thought. The instructor. She paused. There's no way he was old enough. Probably a doc student, helping out the real professor.
She was the last one to arrive in the classroom, and the well-dressed man closed the door behind him. There were about ten other students.
The man took off his jacket and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing powerful forearms that gave way to large, strong hands. "Good afternoon, class," he said. "I'm Neal Pollack."
Eliana gasped. Surely this was not the Neal Pollack whose work she had read every night from age 16. That man must be older, or fat, or bald, or pale. But no—she suddenly remembered reading, three or four years ago, that Pollack had been appointed as the youngest-ever writing professor at a prestigious American university. What fortune that she attend this university, that she enroll in his class!
The next two hours were a blur. Eliana couldn't concentrate on anything but Neal's jeans. The rough, dark denim couldn't hide the exquisite musculature of his thighs—and the obviously large muscle between them. Her eyes leapt from his jeans to his hard, silk-shrouded chest and back again. She stared at the seams of his zipper, hypnotized.
Her trance was broken when the other students shuffled and banged out of the classroom. Flustered, she gathered her things, not daring to look Neal in the face.
"Eliana."
She froze.
"Eliana, this is a small class. Everyone was talking, laughing, shouting, exclaiming that I was America's greatest living associate professor, and you didn't say a word. I know you're a foreign student—is the language a problem?"
Eliana looked into his soulful green-brown eyes. In them, she saw lifetimes, eons, entire worlds that died and were born again.
"Not the English, no," she said, although she barely heard herself. He closed the door. "Is there something we should talk about?"
Eliana stammered. She could not find words in any language. All she knew was Neal.
Shaking, she reached into the pocket of her khakis. She pulled out the clipping, brown with age and tearing at the creases.
He opened it gently and frowned. She still could not speak. He looked at her, and his face softened. He put a hand on her shoulder.
“Eliana,” he said tenderly, “Is this why you’re here?”
She was startled into awareness as her hairband snapped. Her thick black hair fell softly to her shoulders. “I—I have a boyfriend,” she said, backing away.
“Franzen is a pussy,” Neal said. But how could he—
Her thoughts were interrupted by the feeling of Neal’s lips crushing down on hers. His heat fogged her glasses, and as he pulled away, she took them off. He looked at her. “Take off your sweater.”
As the blue wool came off, it lifted up the tight cotton blouse underneath, giving Neal a glimpse of her smooth, caramel skin. His eyes ran up and down her body. He stepped toward the window.
“Come here,” he said, “and let me get a look at you in the light.”
She looked up at him with hungry eyes. “Neal,” she gasped.
He drew her to him, pressing his lips against hers, tickling her mouth with his tongue. She wanted to speak, to protest, to push him away. But she couldn’t. She was helpless.
His mouth left her lips and traveled down her neck as he unbuttoned her blouse. She moaned softly. He kissed her collarbone and glided down between her breasts. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and her ample breasts were swollen with anticipation. His tongue, light and cool, traced the inside curve of her breast and circled around to her hard brown nipple. He kissed her nipple, lightly at first, and then began to suck. One hand reached around and grabbed her ass, the other rhythmically squeezed her other breast. She felt herself go wet. She moaned again, louder this time, closing her eyes and tilting back her head. Neal moved faster, stroking her ass, squeezing her breast, biting her nipple and twisting it with his lips.
Eliana’s head spun. She started to go limp. She began, slowly, to pump her hips against him. “Oh, Neal,” she moaned, “Oh Neal!”
Slowly, teasingly, his hand trailed around her hip and unbuttoned her khaki pants. He reached underneath the cotton of her panties to touch her hairless mound. His fingers slid down, moving so slow she thought she might explode. Her arms and legs began to tingle. Her eyes clamped tight, and her mouth fell open. Slowly, firmly, he rubbed his thumb against her clit. She was panting now, dizzy and electric. Neal moved faster and faster, squeezing, rubbing, sucking, until suddenly the world went dark and she came. She collapsed, weakened, to the classroom floor. She looked up.
He stood above her, chest heaving, sliding up and down against the silk of his shirt. His burning eyes penetrated her.
She shifted her weight so that she was sitting on her heels. Still breathing heavily, she reached up. With trembling hands, she undid his belt buckle. His breathing got stronger. As she undid the metal button of his jeans, he broke his gaze and let out a small moan. She undid his zipper, still shaking, and he closed his eyes.
As she tugged his jeans down, his long, thick cock strained against his boxers. She straightened into a kneeling position and slid her fingers under the elastic waistband. As she drew his boxers down, he thrust his hands into her long, thick hair. His cock was long and smooth and hard, and she took the pink-purple organ into her mouth. Slowly, gently, she wrapped her lips around his plum and began to lick and salivate. With one hand, she reached up and gently tugged at his balls. She pulled at the swollen sack and rubbed it, squeezed it. She kept at this massage as she took her other had down to her own wetness. She brought it back up and wrapped her fingers around his cock, using her juices as lubrication while she rubbed. She pulled at him, sucked him hungrily, consuming him, realizing that she had wanted to for so long. He braced himself against the heavy desk and pushed himself into her. He went deeper and faster, clutching the desk and clenching his teeth. When he came, she felt the hot liquid hit the back of her throat. As the come pulsed out of him, she suddenly came again, sucking at him the way a drowning person gulps for air, thrashing and kicking as if in seizure. When they were both finished, he lifted his cock from her mouth. She looked up at him, wishing it could go on forever.
"I've always wanted to see Brazil," he said.
