She quickly turns around and sees it is only Mr. Martin, owner of this house that Ella is putting up art in. Relief. "Mr. Martin, what a surprise!"

"Hi Ella. I didn't mean to sneak up on you. I'm on my lunch break, and I wanted to see what progress you're making. Get a sneak preview?"

"Oh, I'm glad you're here! I can ask you a question. Your wife is out."

"Question away."

"Which of these two pictures do you like better for this place on your wall?" Ella puts up one picture on the hook on the wall.

She explains, "They both go well enough with the colors in the room. This picture of a woman at a table looks better from the doorway." She takes his hand, leads him to the entry of the room. She lets go of his hand and they both turn around to look at the picture.

"Hmmm," Ella says, mostly to herself. "It should go up a few inches."

"I like it," he says.

Ella looks back at him and smiles, then walks back, takes down the first picture and places it carefully in the corner, then puts up the other painting. "This painting is abstract," she says, gesturing her head at it. She walks back to Mr. Martin. "It looks better from the center of the room." She gestures for him to come to the center of the room.

He walks over, Ella realizes she is standing too close to him and that she might be crowding him. She apologizes – "sorry" – and moves a step away. "That's technically upside down, but it works better with the room when it's that way."

"What's the difference between technically upside down and ordinary upside down?" He's smiling and there's a twinkle in his eye.

She smiles, embarrassed. "Okay, it's upside down. But it's abstract art, you know? No one really cares."

He takes a step in Ella's direction and looks at it from that perspective, studying it. "Let me see what it looks like right-side up."

"Can do," she says in a chipper voice. "I still have the wire on for that." She walks to the painting, turns it around, for some reason imagining Mr. Martin staring at her body while she works with it. When it's right, she turns around and he's a step closer to her. She walks to stand next to him and waits while he studies it.

He chuckles. "I see what you mean. I'm not going to have any guests noticing if that painting is upside-down. Technically upside down."

"Yes, I – " He puts his hand on her hand to stop her talking. "Let me look a little more," and he removes his hand. And studies.

He asks seriously, "You're talking about a very subtle difference here. Am I right?"

"Yes, I guess you could say that." She stops.. "But you're paying me A LOT of money to put up paintings in your house. And I can – "

He interrupts. "I'm sure you'll be worth it."

"I am. And I can see the small differences. I know they're small, but they add up. You're going to love this room. I hope."

He looks back. "I can see the small difference. You are good. If you decide on the abstract, upside-down is the way to go. But I I prefer the woman."

"The woman it is." She goes over and takes the abstract down, she turns around and Mr. Martin is right behind her holding out the picture with the woman. Ella carefully sets down the abstract near by. "Just a second." She pulls the picture holder out of the wall, pulls a small hammer out of the pocket of her dress, and puts the picture holder up two inches and pounds it into the wall.

She sets her hammer down on a nearby table, then takes the painting from Mr. Martin, tries to put it up, but it's a little heavy and a little high, so she has difficulty for just a moment.

"Let me help you."Before she can explain about not really needing help, Mr. Martin is holding each side of the painting and an inch away from her body. She gets the painting up, trying to avoid him as she moves, but it's impossible.

When it's up and centered, she turns around and he takes a step back. "Thanks," she says as politely as she can.

"Looks good. So did the abstract." He looks around. "So, give me a tour."

"Sure. Well, I just started in this room. Let me show you your wife's bedroom and the bathroom."

"Sounds good."

She doesn't take his hand, she starts walking to the bathroom, him following.

She stops at the door. "Ta da," she sings out.

She's really nervous about what he will think. She knows the bathroom is great. But that's just her feeling. Maybe it's wrong. And most people don't notice. She's been doing small jobs, but this is only her second really big job, for big money. It's hard to get started in a business most people don't even know exists, much less how important it is.

and she hears, "Wow. I like it." He brushes past her and walks in.

He's looking at one picture. "How come I can't see this picture very well?" It's at an angle.

"Um, what you see changes when you move around the room. It helps you feel like you are living in the space, a more dynamic feel. Um, anyway, that's for when you are on the . . . "

He smiles ruefully. "Toilet. I see that now. Is there a picture for the shower?"

She panics and says in a rush, "No, um, that's hard to do, the water and everything, I can try to do one if you want. I just –

He again reaches out and touches her hand to stop her. "I understand. I meant that as a joke. Can you really put a picture in the shower?"

"I can do anything," she says confidently. She could find something waterproof. Re-tile the back wall -- that would be expensive but luxuriously gorgeous.

He stops. Her comment sits there – she can do anything. She blushes. "With art."

He smiles. "I bet you can. Okay, show me the Queen's room."

She panics again. "Oh, no one told me to design it that way, I – " She blushes again. "you're exaggerating."

He shakes his head. "Probably not."

She walks to his wife's bedroom, steps aside, and jokes back, "The Queen's bedroom."

He looks at it, studies it. She really likes how he pays attention and cares about art. She thought, well, she knew she would be paid a lot of money, but she thought Mrs. Martin was behind that. Maybe Mr. Martin wants this too.

He puts his hand on her shoulder in a friendly way and says, "Tell me about what you did here. I assume it looks good and I'm guessing my wife will like it. But I want to understand."

She is momentarilly discombobulated by his hand on her shoulder. She focuses on the room. "The pictures fit the color scheme for the room. That's only approximate, but approximate is all you ever want with colors, and this is enough to give the room a sense of harmony."

She turns towards him a little, adjusting her position, hoping he will drop his hand, but he doesn't. She focuses on explaining. "The pictures all have a low sense of depth, that gives the room a cozy feeling. And –"

"Stop." She stops talking. He looks around. "I can feel that. The coziness. Are you going to do that for my bedroom?"

"I didn't do your bedroom yet. Did you want cozy?"

He keeps looking at the room. "No."

She thinks, high-quality pictures with classy women, subtly sexy, high realism.'

"But this is beautiful," he says.

He adds, "And so are you."

a warning bell sounds softly in her head. She ignores it, she needs this job. "Thank you." She is NOT awkwardly correcting a man who is paying her a lot of money.

Wait – did he just pull her infintesimally closer? Some women might not notice, but she's an expert on subtle differences. She decides she's making that up, then he pulls her another infintesimal closer.

Sigh. Second warning bell. She can't ignore that – as awkward as this scene is going to be, she has to stop this. She reaches up to gently take his hand off her shoulder, and

he grabs her hand and pushes up against her. She tries to back away, he follows while pushing against her, and she slams against the wall, him pressing his body into her and pinning her to the wall. She tries to squirm away but she can't; she tries hard to get away and he just presses more firmly into her. She reaches for the hammer in her pocket.

"You left it on the table," he growls, his hot breath on her eyes.

His mouth presses forcefully against her lips.She's frozen with fear, his one hand now holding both of hers while the other finds her breast and starts squeezing it. She want to cry. She tries again to squirm away, but she can't.

He moves his mouth to her ear. His warm, wet breath says "I know you want this, slut."

"no" she whimpers.

"Then why aren't you screaming?"

The house is empty. She tries to scream, to prove she doesn't want this, but it comes out as a feeble "help."

"Take off your clothes, slut."

She doesn't move.

He slaps her hard across the face.

It's a shock, a complete shock, and it hurts so much. She can't even move if she wanted to.

He slaps her again across the face. "TAKE YOUR CLOTHES OFF!" he shouts angrily.

It hurts so much. She realizes she has to take her clothes off, but before she can move he SLAPS her again.

"Okay," she whimpers, and she starts to cry, and she takes her clothes off. She tries to go as fast as she can so he doesn't hit her again, but it's hard with the tears in her eyes.

When she's done, and standing naked, she starts to get angry. She's still afraid to move. Her eyes clear, she rubs the last tears out of them

And he's standing there, with an expensive camera in hand. He takes of picture of her, probably not the first. "Turn around," he orders.

She slowly turns around and hears him take a picture of her from behind.

Then she's facing him again. He says, "I love beauty." She sees the telephoto lens move out, so he's taking a picture of her breast. Then more zooming in, probably to get her nipple. "I love art. I love displaying art. We have a lot in common, you know." He's cruel with his words, too.

He walks up to her. She cowers in fear and embarrassment. He starts unbuckling his belt.

She knows she is going to be raped.

He pulls down his pants. His cock is large and hard. She knows he is going to penetrate her. Sex has never seemed so disgusting.

He pulls her away from the wall and pushes her to the floor. He kneels on top of her and spreads her legs.

She knows this is going to be quick and violent.

He feels her cunt. "Wet. Why am I not surprised."

Of all the shame she has experienced today, and will experience, this is the most shameful. She wants to die.

He thrusts violently into her, one quick powerful thrust. She is not fully lubricated, and it hurts. The pain. More pain.

And then she is lubricated, and he is thrusting, and she looks up at him and he is staring at her. "You are beautiful."

She is, she knows she's beautiful. That has never disgusted her before. She even worked hard to be beautiful, even this morning. He appreciates her beauty. But doesn't ever again want to look beautiful.

Finally he does close his eyes. And his face scrunches up. He says, "Scream like you enjoy it." And so she fakes an orgasm while he cums inside her.

He pulls out quickly, stands, and starts wiping himself with his underpants. "No blood. You weren't a virgin."

She is dimly aware that he knows that and it's just another way of calling her a slut. She doesn't want to die, but she wishes she could just disappear, that this wasn't still happening to her.

He looks at his phone. "Whoa, getting late. Gotta earn the money this job is going to cost me. You really do good work. You really are beautiful. He reaches out and tweaks her nipple. "There, you can let the horny policemen try to get a fingerprint off your nipple."

He walks away, turns back. "And let me say the technically obvious, beautiful. If you breathe any word of this, to anyone, you are never getting another job in this city. The police, who by the way appreciate my yearly donations, do not want to deal with a he-said-she-said story. You do not want me digging up information from your past. If you want wives to hire you, your reputation had better be spotless, with not even a hint that you might have came on to me and then tried to blackmail me when I pushed you away."

He walks away. "Take your time, do a good job, you have about 15 minutes until the Queen comes back, you had better be dressed and composed."

She puts her clothes back on through her tears. She tries to forget about what happened. His hands crawling on her body. The violent taking from her, using her. The pictures of her he is going to be looking at. She mumbles, "Forget it, it was nothing, forget it, it was nothing, forget it, it was nothing, forget it, it was nothing. It's a job, do a good job, you have to do a good job."

She tries to get back to work, but she can't think and she can't feel -- the art is dead to her. She realizes that whatever she is supposed to be doing, she's not getting any work done today. She leaves a note "Family emergency, nothing big, back tomorrow" and goes out, somehwhere, she doesn't care, to try to recover.

She will make sure she is never again in that house alone, but she will have to face him again while he pretends nothing happened.

He made any thought of art feel dirty.