Grant and Irina

This story has been more difficult -- and exciting -- to write than any other story I have ever written. That is because most of it is true. Naturally, some details and events have been changed to protect the people involved. But I hope you enjoy it.

And Grant? Thank you -- for everything.

***

I don't like airports.

I guess most people associate them with travel; of soaring high through the blue sky and reaching exotic corners of the planet; a chance to meet new people and new cultures in places you would probably never be able to visit otherwise. And I guess all that's true. But for me, standing in an airport conjures up a dreadful feeling of stress. I see myself standing in long lines, making my way through paranoid security checkpoints and keeping track of all my things. To me, an airport is the mad dash to the gate before it closes, or the endless, soul-devouring wait for a delayed flight.

No, I don't particularly like airports. Never have and never will. Even today, when I wasn't actually going anywhere, the usual anxiety was all over me. Except today it was worse. Way worse. Today, I was probably going to commit the biggest mistake of my life.

And yet somehow, I couldn't wait.

There was the usual crowd of people by the arrival gate; relatives and friends waiting for their loved ones, taxi drivers hunting for customers, and of course the sign-carrying individuals who were supposed to meet arrivals they had never met before. But as I stood there among them, leaning against the metal railing separating us from the gate, I wasn't sure what category I was supposed to belong to. My situation - and the circumstances which had brought me there - was so bizarre that I wondered if anyone had ever been in my place. At least I knew that I wasn't a taxi driver. Good thing too, for I have never really liked driving. Also, I'm not sure it's a suitable job for a lone, young and reasonably attractive woman. But that's not my point - my point is that I wasn't a taxi driver. But I digress. Sorry. All I can say is that at the moment, my mind was anything but coherent. Between the storm of doubts whirling in my head and the fluttering of a billion angry butterflies in my stomach, I couldn't do much but stare emptily. Truth be told - I was afraid. Very, very afraid. And yet, all while the rational, sane part of my mind screamed for me to leave, I wanted nothing but to stay. To see Him.

I'm digressing again, aren't I?

So if I wasn't a taxi driver, what category did I belong to? Family member or friend? We - that is Him and I - knew each other, but we weren't family, and we weren't exactly friends in the traditional sense either. So, was I one of those people with a named sign, waiting for a stranger? Maybe. In many ways, we were strangers. Our relationship had always been... vague. Often it struck me as unreal - as some sort of ethereal thing which only existed in our email boxes. Outside of some computer servers, we were nothing to each other. At least, we weren't supposed to be. But at the same time, I knew His name. And I

certainly

knew what He looked like.

The air was filled with the murmur of hundreds of voices. Around our little waiting island, the airport continued to pulse with activity. Trolleys filled with baggage rattled by, crowds of people clustered around self-check-in computers or stood in long lines waiting to get rid of their heavy bags. In comparison, our corner of the great hall almost seemed serene. Our eyes were on those trickling through the gates. Most hurried on by us, others were caught in the nets of the taxi drivers. I saw a young family with two small children, all four brown from some southern sun, happily meet up with an older couple - probably the grandparents. Two men shook hands and headed briskly for the exit, while a young couple fell into each other's arms. The trickle grew into a stream, as people had now got their baggage and were hurrying for the exits. I waited, trying to ignore the butterflies as they chewed away at my insides. I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. It didn't help. I've always had a somewhat nervous disposition. Even in situations I know aren't anything bad or serious, I can't help but feel that something is going to go wrong. Maybe something had gone wrong. Or would. Or already had. Jesus Christ.

But perhaps this moment is as good as any to introduce myself. My name is Irina. It's a Russian name, for although I've lived in Sweden for more than half of my life at this point, my roots are Russian. You always run a thin line when trying to talk about yourself - you are either too modest or you brag too much. But I'll certainly try.

My name is Irina. This summer I was 24 years old and very, very pale. I had tanned a little in the past few months, but I wouldn't exactly call myself sun-kissed - more like awkwardly brushed. But that would be nothing unusual, for I have always been pale. My northern genetics get part of the blame, but a lifetime of burning to a crisp the moment I step into the sun has taught me to be careful. This summer - just like every summer - I stayed in the shade as much as possible, or at least tried to use shameless amounts of sunscreen. There are basically two ways to describe my complexion; either snow-white porcelain, or pale like death itself. As you might guess, I prefer the former.

I have long black hair - that day, I had made sure that my coal-black tresses cascades down my neck and shoulders like a veritable shiny waterfall. My face is rounded, and I have always liked to think about it having features that are soft; but not overly plump. I have full lips, a slightly upturned nose, brown eyes lined with dark eyelashes, and rather thick black eyebrows.

That day I was wearing a light cotton sundress, coloured a rich shade of Egyptian blue with a red ribbon around my waist. The skirt was knee-length, with a modest amount of cleavage and elbow-length sleeves. Again - I burn easily. Still, I think I looked rather good in it. My body shape leans towards an hourglass, and the dress helped emphasize it. It revealed a pair of rather shapely calves and narrowed the waist to draw attention to my hips and bust. And before you ask - it's C-cups. Looking back, I still think I looked rather nice. I don't want to toot my own horn, but there are days when I am rather happy with my looks.

If only he'd turn up.

The suspicion hit me suddenly - I even bit the inside of my lip. Maybe he wasn't coming. The last time we had talked had been many hours ago, before he boarded the plane in the US. Or at least, he had said he was about to board it. Suddenly, I felt queasy. Maybe it had all been a lie. My hands tightened around the metal bars of the railing, and I swore silently. I felt a flash of anger and humiliation - sudden and hot. I drew a long breath and was just about to let go of the bar when...

When...

I saw Him.

My heart was in my throat, and the butterflies in my stomach were ravenous. I froze, unable to move or talk. I simply let go of the bar, staring at him. As if feeling my gaze, he turned his head toward me, and his eyes stopped on me. We saw each other. And we both knew that we saw each other.

For just a moment - a brief second in time, no more - I think we were both frozen at the sight of each other.

Then, as warm and easy as a summer breeze, a smile curved his lips. Slinging his travelling bag over his shoulder, he headed towards me. I let go of the railing. He came up to me, and I found myself looking up into his eyes.

"Hello," he said.

I don't know how I managed to wrest back control over myself, but I did. I answered, "Hello."

"Irina."

It was both a question and a statement. Maybe he himself was uncertain. I managed a nod. "Yeah. And you're... Grant?"

His smile became a little wider. "Yeah," he said. "Handshake, or hug'n kiss like old friends?"

"Oh," I uttered. The question caught me completely off-guard. But then I laughed, and while I was still stood on my tippy-toes and kissed him. And for a short, incredibly strange moment, the world outside of the kiss ceased to exist. To anyone that saw us, we were just another couple, reunited after a long time apart. It was just like that, and not at all.

He tasted good.

"Like old friends, then," he said afterwards.

"Yeah, I guess we are. I..." I paused, trying to put my thoughts into order. "I've got a car parked outside. You ready to go?"

"Taxi and everything, huh?" he said and winked. "Sure, let's go. Can't wait to sit on my butt some more."

We started walking, making our way through the by now thinning crowd. Or rather - he began walking, and I had to remind myself that I was the one supposed to be leading the way.

"It's not very far," I said, almost apologetically. "It's about 30 minutes to drive to my place. Unless you want to, I don't know, go into town and grab a bite to eat or something.

"It isn't very far," I said, almost apologetically. "It's about 30 minutes to my place. Unless you want to, I don't know, go into town and grab a bite to eat, or something."

I had promised myself not to ramble. I had even tried practicing the lines I would use at the beginning - gone through them time and time again. Much good that did me. I anxiously glanced up at him.

Grant.

I could still barely believe it. I had seen him before - many times. Over our time knowing each other, we had exchanged everything from pictures to videos, and in the last couple of months we had been video-chatting a lot. So it was not like I didn't know what he would be like. And yet, seeing him for real was...

Special.

He was a handsome man; tall, well-built and broad-shouldered. He was dressed rather simply - a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, but the outfit complimented him. His shirt in particularly put emphasis on his torso and strong arms, but in a casual, natural way, and not blatantly at all. I don't really know how to describe him more than that, at least not without tripping into overt flattery. His face, like the rest of him, was handsome. He was in his late thirties, with strong, rugged lines. His eyes were calm and focused, and his hair was dark brown, arranged in a freshly done crew cut.

If I sound like a girl shamelessly fawning over him -- well, you aren't wrong. While I stared at him, unable to look away, a smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth. He shrugged, "Either is fine by me."

"Did you eat on the plane?" I asked.

"They served two meals. Not that they serve anything interesting. You know, I'd rather have you cook for me."

"Oh," I said and chuckled. "You should've warned me."

"I thought we were already clear on all those details, no?"

"I've been very busy. I guess it just slipped my mind. But you don't need to worry about starving, I promise you."

"What a relief," he said and winked at me. "You have no idea how worried I was the entire flight here."

Grant winked. "I'm sure you will."

It was 15.35 when we stepped through the exit doors, leaving the air-cooled terminal behind and entering the summer heat. High above us, the sun blazed bright from a perfectly cloudless blue sky. August was already nearing its end, but the summer showed no signs of leaving anytime soon. I could almost feel the heat descending upon my skin the moment I stepped out of the shade. I put on my sunglasses and set course for the great parking lot.

"You've been having warm weather, I heard," said Grant as he looked around.

"Yeah," I said. "It's horrible."

"Why's that?

I shrugged while rummaging through my bag for the car keys. "I'm not a big friend of hot weather."

"Is that so? Huh. I guess that means a vacation to the Bahamas is out of the question, then."

I almost stopped in my tracks. "What?"

He laughed. "I was toying with this idea, that's all. If we ever meet up again. Don't worry, I won't force you to go on any trips with me."

"Ah. It's not that I don't want to go. I mean, if we were to," I began, and mentally cringed at myself. Jesus Christ, not ten minutes in and I was already losing the power of coherent speech. "You know what I mean. I'm basically a stick of ice cream, and the moment you hold me in the sun I begin to melt. I'm even the same colour."

I pulled up my sleeve to show off my arm. Grant laughed again. It was a warm, kind laugh - and I couldn't help but smile myself at my silly attempt at a joke.

"I guess you've got a point. Maybe you should use sunscreen?"

"Trust me," I said, shaking my head in resignation, "I do."

"Enough of it?"

"Is it possible to overdose?"

"I don't think you can, actually."

"Well... then I regularly almost-overdose."

I pressed down the key button and my car greeted us with a friendly chirp. I directed Grant to put his baggage in the back and slipped into the driver's seat. Grant had some more trouble squeezing into the passenger seat due to his size and the limited space between my car and the next, but soon he too was in his seat. I turned the key in the ignition, put the air conditioner on max and headed for the massive parking lot's exit. Within a minute we were through the toll gate and on the road.

I must admit - I had been afraid there would be awkward silence. You know, the one where everyone just stares into nothing, nods occasionally and can do nothing more than feed each other stilted lines of dialogue. My conversation skills are decent, but I have never been good at handling these situations. The only icebreaker I know is to awkwardly try and discuss the silence itself, maybe mention that the French call '

un ange pass

' - an angel passes. Or something like that. Anything to avoid the awkward, anxiety-inducing silence.

Turns out I didn't need to worry. I had turned on the radio, but I actually don't even remember what was playing. Grant and I just... talked. About... stuff. There were a few clichés of course, like talking about the weather and such. But the conversation never died, and just kept on going. I barely noticed as I drove from the airport and into town, and then how I plotted my way through the afternoon rush towards my area. It wasn't that different talking to Grant in real life then it was through the internet. It was like were old friends who were meeting after a long time apart.

And in a way, we were.

I Actually don't know how to begin the story. Of how we met, that is -- or whatever you call it when two people start talking online. To anyone who reads this story on Literotica -- this is where we met. He sent me feedback on one of my other works, and we just... started talking. I don't know if there are many people who get to know each other through sites filled with erotic literature, but I guess it happens. Stranger things certainly do. Of course, it was nothing serious at first. We discussed writing, and erotica in general. Our conversations then soon moved to the subject of fantasies. I guess the fact that our first contact was over some smut made the shift to personal thoughts and desires rather easy. So we talked fantasies. It was... odd, at first. I've never really talked about my personal sex life with anyone before -- and even less about my more intimate thoughts and desires. It didn't take long before we started talking dirty at each other. And it was fun. More fun that it probably should have been. I don't think I've talked so much dirty to a person even in my personal life, but I think I got addicted to it. There was even a period when I would keep checking my mail constantly throughout the day, just to see if he had responded to my latest filthy, salacious post. My heart would jump when he had. And when he hadn't, I would feel disappointed, and then surprised and annoyed at how hotly I was waiting for his replies. But that had been just the beginning.

There was a pause in our peaceful, so strangely ordinary conversation, and I used the moment to glance at him. Sunlight streamed through the car window, bathing us both in a bright glow. He had put on his sunglasses as well and was looking out the passenger window, watching the city flow by us. I know you aren't supposed to ignore the road when driving, but I admit I had some trouble with it. With his head turned away, his jawline was perfectly defined under his tanned skin. Of course, anyone would look tan in comparison to me, but he must have spent a good deal of time in the sun. The golden-brown hue of his muscular, well-defined arms seemed to reach all the way inside his t-shirt. The shirt wasn't tight, but it sat rather snuggly on his torso.

I returned my attention to the road just in time, managing a gentle break at the red traffic light instead of a hard stop. Sighing, I annoyedly brushed some hair from my forehead and tucked it beneath my hat.

"Everything alright?" he asked.

"Hm? Yeah," I said, probably far too quickly to be convincing. "Just thinking."

"About what?"

"About everything and nothing," I shrugged, "Just thinking. Zoning out. It happens sometimes."

"Of course," he said amusedly, "Thinking is good. I try to think myself sometimes."

"Oh really?" I answered in the same light-hearted tone, "Does it work?"

"Sometimes. In fact, I was thinking right now."

"Oh really," I repeated. "May I ask about what?"

"Sure you can. I was thinking about how you seem a bit..." He paused briefly, and when I looked at him, I saw that he was smiling again. It was a good smile - showing just-enough teeth to be genuine. I couldn't see his eyes behind his sunglasses, but I could've sworn that they were glittering. "Distracted," he finished.

"Is that so?" I said casually. "I haven't noticed."

"I'm not surprised. You haven't noticed the green light either."

I swore, but the sound was probably drowned out by the angry honk behind us. I stepped on the gas, but l released of the clutch a bit too quickly. The car's even rumble grew to a sudden roar and it jerked forward -- just barely avoiding a stall. I was still swearing as I brought us away from the intersection. After that, I needed a few seconds to gather myself again.

"Sorry."

"No worry. Although I noticed you've got quite the potty mouth."

"Sorry."

He chuckled. "You don't have to apologize that either. It doesn't bother me; I just didn't figure you did. And that was an impressive number of fucks you fired off there."

"Mhm," I sounded, still feeling equal parts irritated and embarrassed. "I don't really swear

that

often. But when I do it's a... let's call it a barrage. My mom hates it."

"She doesn't expect such foul language from her little angel?"

"Yeah, it's something like that. And I get that, but she reacts like I'm sort of antichrist if I swear at all. If she saw me falling down the stairs and break my arm and let one 'fuck' slip because of it, I'm pretty sure she would yell at me first before calling the ambulance."

"She sounds like a bit of a traditionalist."

"A bit, yeah."

"What do you think she would say if she knew about us?"

I bit my lip as I thought about the answer. Then, pushing away the unpleasant thoughts, I made a resigned shrug. "I don't know. But I think the answer would range between stern disapproval and a heart attack."

"Have you decided what you're going to tell her?"

It doesn't think it had been meant like a serious question. He sounded curious at best. But all the anxiety, which I had somehow managed to forget about during the drive, immediately bubbled up from deep inside of me. I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks, and made a strange, nervous sound - something between a giggle and a sigh. "No," I said simply. Then, when the seconds of silence became unbearable, I sighed again; "Not really. I guess I'll cross that bridge when I get to it.

If

I get to it."