Summary: Carmen hires a call girl to fulfill a very specific fantasy. Carmen/OFC, hints of Carmen/Ivy.

Disclaimer: WOEICS is the property of not moi.

Author's Note: This is not a story for younger readers. While it is not explicit, it contains mature sexual themes as well as some coarse language. If consensual relationships between two adult women offend you, this is not the tale for you. But if you stick around, you might learn something about early 20th century modernism.

Strange, to be able to pinpoint a moment that changes your entire life.

I was not doing anything special when I received a call from my boss late one Wednesday afternoon. I say " boss," but "madam" would be a more accurate description. You could call me an escort, but when all is said and done, let's face it, I'm a whore. Albeit one with a fancy liberal arts degree and a spacious Soho loft. The things a girl will do for exposed brick.

I answered the phone to hear Diana's familiar London drawl; "Alex, darling, are you still free on Friday? I have a new client for you."

"I guess that would depend on the client." I was feeling quiet flush at the moment, hardly desperate for new business.

"You are really, really going to want to take this one. Trust me." I could hear her take a drag of her cigarette through the phone. "Businesswoman, thirtysish. Bloody gor-geous. With deep pockets." The latter, of course, being most important to Diana, as she stood to gain a percentage of whatever I made.

"A woman? Wouldn't Mel or Vanessa be better?" It was not sexual incompatibility that made me hesitate; I had nothing against sleeping with women. But usually my clients were men, sometimes the occasional couple.

"I told her that. But she wants you." Another pause, another drag of cigarette. "She offered to triple your fee. Don't be an ass, Alex dear."

Believe it or not, I was actually somewhat flattered. "Never fear, Diana, I'll take the job. Any special requests?"

"Good girl. She'll come to your flat, you know the drill. Oh, she did ask that you look somewhat natural, not overly made up. I told her you play the girl next door quite well."

I do, actually. "It's a date."

I was a bit nervous waiting for Sofia Calderon's arrival; I always am when meeting a new client. The things that raced through my head were actually not too far afield from the feelings most people have on a first date. Namely, thoughts of the "will she like me?" variety. Most of my clients liked me very much…but occasionally some didn't. And rarely, some could be violent. Diana was adept at filtering out the majority of the sick tickets, but she was not infallible. There was always a risk.

I enjoyed the risk. Sometimes more than I enjoyed the money.

The intercom beeped and a polite female voice floated out, "Alex O'Keefe? This is Sofia."

"Hold on, I'll buzz you in," I called. I hated intercoms, they made for awkward first impressions. I looked in the mirror and gave myself a final once over. "Natural" was such a broad suggestion. After trying on a dozen different outfits, I had finally decided on a low cut emerald top that set off my eyes and a pair of blue jeans that hugged my every curve. Because you couldn't get more All-American than Levis.

A gentle knock announced my client's arrival. I opened the door to reveal a tall woman with the most striking blue eyes. "Hi. I'm Alex, please come in," I said, a bit shyly as she crossed the threshold.

"Sofia," my companion extended a cool hand then followed me into the loft, taking in the lay of the land. I had a suspicion those intelligent blue eyes didn't miss a thing. "Very nice place you have here, Alex."

"Thank you. Can I get you anything? Grey Goose…Glenlivet…I make a killer dirty martini…."

"Just a glass of wine. Red, if you have it." Dressed in a navy blue suit, dark hair pulled back in a sleek French twist, Sofia seemed every inch the starched businesswoman. Her posture was unflinchingly straight, her face guarded. She looked like she needed a drink. It also looked like I had my work cut out for me.

I returned with two glasses of a spicy Shiraz and handed one to Sofia. "Cheers, then."

She clinked glasses with me and replied, "To a pleasurable evening." We locked eyes over the rim of our glasses and I felt a growing spark of desire; she was every bit as bloody gorgeous as Diana had promised. Too quickly, she tore her eyes away from mine and gestured to the paintings on the wall. "Did you do these? They're very good."

It was nice that she noticed. My clients rarely did. "Thanks. I painted them in college."

Sofia waved a manicured hand toward my personal favorite, a girl sitting alone in a Starbucks with laptop and coffee. "Your style is a little postmodern meets Edward Hopper," she commented, with approval.

"You flatter me. But yes, I'm something of a Hopper fan. Do you like art?" I inquired. A simple question.

The mysterious Sofia smiled a little. "I do. It's my business. I acquire collectibles…antiquities…sometimes art."

"Sort of like an antiques dealer?"

"Something like that," she replied vaguely, her face hidden by the shadows of the recessed lighting.

The way she looked triggered a flash of recognition, like something out of a half-remembered dream. "Sofia, I'm sorry, but you look so familiar. Are you an actress or something?"

"I bet you say that to all your clients."

"I'm serious," I laughed. "I could swear I've seen you on TV."

She turned to me, looking slightly bemused. "I'm not usually an actress, no. But yes, I have been on TV."

Maybe it was the Antiques Roadshow, I thought to myself. Sofia did not offer to elaborate more and I knew that to pry would not work in my favor.

Popular opinion holds that what I do here is just about sex. Well, it is about sex. But the people who come here are always looking for more than that. They come seeking fantasy. Or control. Sometimes fantasies of control. Watching Sofia Calderon gracefully prowl my apartment, I wondered which one it was for her.

Finally, my client settled on the leather couch beside me. She drained her glass and looked far away and tired. "Can I get you another?" She shook her head. "You look tense, let me help you relax." I removed her suit jacket and set it aside, the wool so sheer it felt like silk. I gestured for her to turn around and lean against me. For the hell of it, I removed the pins holding back her hair, letting it fall thick and lush down her back. It was so wild and incongruous compared to the buttoned-up rest of her. I began to softly massage her shoulders and neck. There was a quite a bit of tension there. It made me glow with satisfaction to feel my client gradually give in to my touch, closing her eyes, letting out a small sigh. But when I bent to plant a kiss on the sensitive skin near her collarbone, she recoiled as if stung.

"Is something wrong?" I asked, concerned but calm.

My companion took a deep breath and looked at her hands. "I don't usually do this," she told me, her voice thick with emotion.

I've heard that one a hundred times before. "You don't usually do this with high-priced call girls, you mean."

She looked at me, her face inscrutable, and said altogether too nonchalantly, "I don't usually do this with anyone." She paused a beat, trying to rationalize. "I travel a lot. For work. It makes it hard. And I'm in a delicate position, I need to be discreet…"

So it was control for this one.

I touched my fingers to her full red lips to silence her. "There's no need to be afraid. I'm very discreet," I said as I swung one blue-jean clad leg over to straddle her lap.

She didn't protest, just muttered, "I'm not afraid."

"Good," I purred back, cupping her head in my hands, and tilting her head up for a long, languorous kiss. Sofia responded, slowly at first, then with growing ardor, her fingers running through my short red hair. When we broke apart, her bright eyes had grown dark with desire. Her long, tapered fingers rested on the planes of my face and I had the feeling she was looking right through me, searching for someone who wasn't there.

"I shouldn't be doing this. It's not right," she said, and I could hear both guilt and longing in her voice.

I wanted to help. And, strangely, I wanted her. So I began kissing her again in earnest, brushing my breasts against hers, trailing my lips up the side of her neck. "A lot of things aren't right. But we do them anyway," I whispered into her ear.

And then her resistance seemingly snapped, and she kissed me forcefully, her tender lips bruising mine, arms wrapping around me and pulling me closer. I was stunned when she picked me up in one fluid movement and carried me to my bed as if I weighed nothing at all. I had no idea she was so strong.

Beneath Sofia's chilly exterior beat the heart of a very passionate woman. Pushed past her breaking point, she made love with a raw intensity that was nearly violent.

I woke in the morning to find my bed was cold and empty, as if she had never been here at all. A look in the mirror revealed bruises on my arms and other mementos strewn across my chest and neck. I would be wearing turtlenecks for the rest of the week. Thinking back on the evening's activities, I noted with satisfaction that Sofia would, too.

And on my kitchen table, an unexpected token of remembrance: a single rose, red as blood.