The Deep Fake

All characters are over eighteen years old.

Normally I was one of the first people in the office, but I was running a little late that Monday morning. So when I walked through the front door, the receptionist was already behind her desk. I gave her a smile and flashed my usual thumbs-up as I headed back to my cubicle. But instead of returning my greeting, she just stared at me with an odd expression.

Weird, I thought as walked down the hallway. Wonder what’s up with her? Maybe she had a bad night or something.

But my thoughts quickly shifted to my schedule for the week as I sat down at my desk and logged on to my computer. Before the welcome screen could appear, however, Mary, our department secretary, was standing at my side, a most un-welcoming expression on her face.

“How could you do that, Peter?” she demanded. “What were you thinking?”

“What are you talking about, Mary? How could I do what?”

“It’s in your inbox,” she said impatiently. “I think everybody’s seen it by now.”

I fumbled with the cursor, trying to open my email, but before I could do so my phone began ringing. The display read Geneva Pawley. “I better get this,” I said, and picked up. “Peter Graves,” I answered.

The unhappy voice of our longtime VP of Human Resources filled my ear. “Peter, Mr. Castle wants to see you in his office.”

Oh, shit, why does the big boss want to see me? And why is the VP of HR making the call? “Okay, Geneva, I’ll be there just as soon as…”

“No!” she interrupted. “Drop everything. He wants to see you right now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said and hung up. I looked at Mary and tried to make a joke. “I guess I’m in trouble– I’m on my way to Mr. Castle’s office.”

She looked like she was about to cry. “If you’ve cost me my job, I’ll never forgive you.”

What the hell is that all about? I wondered, as I headed to the executive suite.

Mr. Castle’s secretary didn’t say a word when I walked in; instead, she glared and waved me straight in.

Castle was staring at his computer monitor, with Pawley looking over his shoulder. When I walked in, he shook his head disdainfully. “Well, Peter, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“I’m sorry but I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

“Show him, Ms. Pawley,” he ordered, turning the monitor so I could see. To my amazement, his web browser was open to a popular porn site. The idea that the ever-so-proper Marcus Castle could be watching porn shocked me. What is going on? I asked myself.

Then Ms. Pawley clicked on a miniature too small for me to see clearly, and a video began to play. As I stared in disbelief, I saw a white man lying on a bed with his head between the legs of a pretty young black woman. There was no doubt what he was doing: her sighs and moans filled the room.

I watched a few more seconds and then looked at the scowling pair. “Why are we looking at this?” I asked in confusion.

Castle gestured impatiently to Ms. Pawley. “Skip ahead to the end,” he ordered.

When the video resumed, the action was rapidly moving toward a climax — literally. The man was now pumping into the woman for all he was worth, and her moaning had transitioned into passionate cries. The two people on screen apparently reached their peaks at almost the same moment. Then, with a gasp and groan, the man collapsed on top of the semi-conscious woman.

I was just about to ask again what all this was about when the unthinkable happened. The man lifted up and, turning to the camera, grinned and flashed a big thumbs-up. There was no mistaking the man’s face — it was me!

I staggered back and sat down heavily in an office chair, unable to comprehend what I’d just seen. “That isn’t me!” I choked out, pointing at the display. “Where did you get that?”

The HR VP snorted. “It appears you sent the link to that obscene little vignette to half the people in the building. As to your denial, if it isn’t you, you sure seemed to recognize yourself just now.”

“But, but, I’ve never done anything like that. Besides, I have no idea who that woman is.”

“So she was just a casual pick-up?” Pawley shot back.

“No, I mean I don’t know her. I mean I’ve never seen her before.”

Pawley smirked at me. “From what I just saw, it looks like you got to know her pretty well.”

Before I could think of a rejoinder, Castle stood up and waved his hands. “Enough!” he said loudly. He pointed at me. “We’re not going to debate this any further. You can deny all you want, but I don’t think you’re going to convince me or anyone else in this building that you’re not the man in that pornography.”

He shook his white-haired head almost sadly. “Peter, you’ve been a good employee, someone I held high expectations for. I cannot imagine why you would think this was a good thing to do, nor can I conceive of why you would send it to your colleagues and associates. But whatever the case, you surely must know there is no way you can continue working for this company. If nothing else, such a monumental display of poor judgment is enough reason to discharge you.”

He turned to his HR VP. “Ms. Pawley, in light of Mr. Graves’ service to date, I’m not going to fire him for cause. He is to receive the usual benefits of a normal separation.” He turned and pointed at me. “But make no mistake about it: effective immediately you are no longer an employee of this corporation. I want you to leave the building immediately, without speaking to anyone else. Do you understand?”

“Sir, I…”

“My generosity regarding the terms of your separation is not unlimited, Peter. Do you understand?”

I bowed my head. “Yes sir.”

“Ms. Pawley, please escort Mr. Graves out of the building.”

She came over and crossed her arms, waiting until I stood. As we reached the door, I turned back toward Mr. Castle, but he wouldn’t look at me.

When Ms. Pawley and I reached the lobby, I glanced at the cute receptionist. She had that same expression on her face, but this time I knew why. I turned and pushed through the front door, into a world that looked dramatically different from the one I’d seen earlier.

I drove home on autopilot, barely conscious of traffic, streets or even direction. My mind kept flitting like some flying insect from one question to the next, never finding any answers. It was not until I pulled into my subdivision that I remembered I’d soon have to face Estelle and explain why I was no longer employed. That prospect grew even more daunting when I remembered I had no explanation for everything else that had happened this morning. My best chance, I decided, was to hope that she’d heard nothing and gently explain the hoax that had been pulled on me.

The angry tears running down Estelle’s cheeks and the outraged expression on her face blew that hopeful little fantasy away like a smoke-signal in a high wind.

“How could you do such a thing?” she shrilled as I entered the house. “My friends have been calling all morning — everyone has seen what you’ve done.”

“Sweetheart, I’m just as confused and…”

She didn’t want to hear it. “It’s bad enough that you broke your marriage vows. But to boast about it, to put your infidelity online where everyone could see it, to humiliate me — how could you?” Then she dissolved into more tears.

“Estelle, that wasn’t me. You’ve got to believe me.”

“Oh, of course, it wasn’t you,” she scoffed sarcastically. “It must have been your evil twin or someone else who looks exactly like you and acts exactly like you. How could I have been fooled like that?”

She twirled her IPad around so I could see the offending image where she’d halted the video. There I was, grinning like an idiot and flashing my thumbs-up to the camera. She used her fingers to zoom in on my face. “And look at that,” she went on, “your doppelganger even went to the trouble of getting a scar on his eyebrow just like you have.”

Instinctively I reached up to rub the mark from that bike accident years ago.

Now her voice turned cold and bitter. “Don’t try to gaslight me, Peter Graves. You cheated on me with some slut and then posted it online so you could brag about your conquest. You’ve been unfaithful, you’ve publicly humiliated me, and you have the nerve to lie about it?”

She stood up, folded her arms across her chest and began to pace back and forth. “If you think I’m going to forgive and forget something like this, you have another think coming. I’ve already contacted an attorney; you can expect to be served with divorce papers in the next day or so. In the meantime, I’m going to my sister’s. While I’m gone, you can pack your things and get out of here. I want you gone by the time I come home this evening.”

“But where should I go?” I asked stupidly.

“Why don’t you go stay with your little slut?” she asked bitterly.

I knew better than to argue. “So that’s it — I don’t even get a chance to defend myself?”

She stared at me. “Alright, go ahead. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I, well, Stella… honestly I can’t explain any of this. I swear I didn’t cheat on you — I’ve never seen that woman before in my life. Even if I had done something like that — which I didn’t — why in the world would I record the evidence? And why in the world would I send the proof of my infidelity to everyone else? Can’t you see there’s something wrong with this whole thing?”

She was clearly unpersuaded. “You know what, I have no idea why you’d do all those things. Maybe you wanted a video record of your affair so you could beat off to it when you’re alone. Maybe you wanted to impress your buddies that you can still get it on with some hot young thing. Maybe there’s another reason I haven’t thought of. But none of that matters. You said it yourself: for whatever reason you posted the proof of your cheating on a sleazy porn site where anyone and everyone can see it. I don’t care what went on in your twisted mind, I just know that I don’t want to have anything more to do with you.”

Ignoring my protestations, she grabbed her car keys and headed for the door. “Remember,” she instructed, “I want you gone when I get back this evening.” Then she stamped out, slamming the door on our ten-year marriage.

In a daze I went and packed a couple of bags with clothes, computer and toiletries. Then I drove to the first motel I came to and rented a room. In my new living quarters, I sat down on the bed and held my head in my hands. I’ve always been a well-organized person, and I knew I needed to plan out my next steps. The only problem was I couldn’t even figure out the first step to take. Finally, I flopped back on the bed and, mentally and emotionally exhausted, somehow fell asleep.

An hour later I awoke, groggy and still beset by the ruins of my life. But somehow my mind must have kept working because I knew what I had to do. Step one was to go to the Post Office to rent a box. I knew I’d need a new mailing address and it sure wasn’t going to be the Bates Motel or wherever I was.

Armed with my P.O. box number, my next step was to get my finances in order. I contacted the bank to set up a separate account, then moved half our funds into the new one. The woman I talked to must have been through this before — she had a number of helpful suggestions. Then I called our broker and made similar arrangements.

After that, I called Ms. Pawley. When I told her what had happened, she was sympathetic enough to put me in touch with a guy in the benefits department who helped me with those details.

Finally, I went hunting for a lawyer. The woman who’d drawn up our wills didn’t handle divorces, but she was able to refer me to another attorney in the firm who did. I asked the first attorney to start drawing up a new will for me; then I scheduled a meeting with her family law colleague for the day after tomorrow. The new arbiter of my fate, at least for a while, would be Reyna Menudos, Esq.

With my mental checklist completed, at least for the moment, I realized that I was starving, so I left the motel. The first place I spotted was a Greek restaurant, where I went in and ordered a gyro. While I was eating, the part of my mind that had been switched off began to send out distress signals.

How did this happen to me? Who was that woman? Who posted that video to the porn site? Who sent out the emails? Why would someone want to ruin my life so completely? All those questions and more began hot-rodding through my brain. I didn’t have a single answer to any of them, and I had no idea how tackle them. All I managed to do was give myself indigestion.

When I got back to my new temporary abode, I pulled out my laptop and logged on to the company email system. Fortunately, the InfoSys department hadn’t closed my account yet. As head of Network Security, I made a mental note to gig them about that. Then I remembered that I’d been fired and it was their problem, not mine.

The good news about having access was that I was quickly able to find the link to “my” video on the porn site. I called it up and watched it all the way through for the first time.

The room had all the characteristics of a low-budget motel not unlike the one I was in: mass-produced end tables on either side of the bed, generic art hanging over the headboard, a non-descript bedspread on the sheets. In short, there was nothing to help me guess where the video had been shot.

It was also clear that this was not a professional production. The lighting was poor: just the lamps in the room. When the camera moved, it was jerky and abrupt. There was no soundtrack.

The naked young woman, who looked to be in her early 20s, was lounging comfortably on the bed, obviously a willing participant. Then the camera was picked up and moved. When it stabilized again, it had apparently been placed on a table near the foot of the bed. The back of the man who was filming the scene came into view. He climbed on the bed between the girl’s legs. With the camera in that position, I couldn’t see his face. In terms of production values, the video was a stinker.

The action itself wasn’t all that titillating either. The man ate the woman out energetically for about five minutes, bringing her to an orgasm. Then he crawled up between her legs in a kneeling position, draped her legs over his shoulders and proceeded to pound her for the next five minutes until they both climaxed. Again, thanks to the poor camera angle there wasn’t that much to see.

What did make the video noteworthy was the audio. Perhaps the male was remarkably adept at oral sex or the female was unusually aroused and sensitive. Either way, the sounds she made and the way her body writhed in response were a definite turn-on.

And her response didn’t let up when the man began to plow the young woman. In fact she responded with even more moans, gasps and whimpers, soon followed by orgasmic yells and screams that surely must have been heard by everyone else in the motel. It didn’t sound to me like she was faking it. “Damn,” I murmured to myself, “whoever he is, he really fucked the hell out of her.”

I went through the whole thing again, frequently pausing the action hoping to get a better look at the guy. Try as I might, I could see nothing to make me think it was somebody else. I could spot no mark, scar, tattoo or deformity — nothing that would prove it wasn’t me.

Finally I focused on the end of the video, where the guy turned to the camera. It was a disorienting experience: my habitual thumbs-up gesture, my grin, my face, and even my scar. As much as I wanted to deny it, it sure looked like my face.

For just a moment, doubt gripped my mind. Could that really be me? Could I have done all that under the influence of drugs or hypnosis or some other weird shit and then forgotten about it?

Then sanity prevailed. The guy in the video sure didn’t look drugged. Moreover, there was absolutely no indication anyone else was present. That meant he had likely planned the whole thing from the start: rent the room, get the girl, video the sex and then upload the product to the porn site. It sure looked like both the guy and the gal had done exactly what they intended to do, of their own free will.

The video was catalogued in the Interracial section, and entitled simply “Ten Minutes of Ecstasy.” I couldn’t argue with that, but it didn’t offer any clues.

I told myself to put all my questions aside. I was going to need professional help to solve this.

After a sleepless night in the unfamiliar surroundings, I spent the following day on my next big priority: starting the search for a new job. My salary and benefits continuation weren’t going to last long, so I needed to get my ass in gear.

It didn’t take long for my ass to resume dragging. I knew most of the major companies in town, and network security was a priority for all of them. Unfortunately, it appeared that the news of my dismissal and the circumstances around it were now common knowledge. No one would say anything, but it was easy to tell that “my” exploits had made me persona non grata in the community I knew.

Once I’d exhausted my contacts, turning to the job search engines was an obvious next step. I put my name and resume on every one I’d ever heard of, as well as a couple of new ones I found. Now I was “out there,” but how long it would take to get a nibble was anybody’s guess. I could only hope that some of my online applications might turn up something. Otherwise, I may have to leave town to find a job, I thought unenthusiastically.

I’d just finished my last submission when there was a knock at my motel room door. At first I was startled because I wasn’t expecting visitors, but then I got a hunch. When I opened the door, the woman standing there began, “Good afternoon, Sir, are you…”

I cut her off before she could finish. “You’re a process server, aren’t you?”

She was caught off guard and hesitated. After a second or two she nodded and tried to start again, but I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. “You found me, I’m Peter Graves” — I reached out and plucked the legal envelope out of her hands — “and now I’ve been served.”

Obviously never having confronted a response like this, she stood there uncertainly for a moment. Then she pulled her phone out of her purse, no doubt intending to take my photo. But I closed the door before she could, and I heard her walk away, muttering to herself. It wasn’t much of a victory, but I felt a little better for not playing her game.

My immediate reaction was resentment toward Estelle, but she’d told me she was going to do this, so I couldn’t say I was surprised. Besides, I had to admit, if I’d found pictures of her being unfaithful, I’d be the one having her served. “But, dammit, it wasn’t me!” I exclaimed to the empty room. I shook my head in dejection. “Yeah, and exactly zero other people believe that.” How was I going to prove my innocence?

Putting that quandary aside, I pulled out the notice and looked it over. Everything looked pretty routine to me, but I knew better than to make that determination myself. I congratulated myself on having already found an attorney. Let her handle the legal details.

The next day, my complacency lasted only a few minutes after I walked into my new attorney’s office. Reyna Menudos was a no-nonsense woman in her early forties, I guessed, wearing a dark skirt and matching jacket. She took the summons and scanned it quickly. Then she put it down and peered at me carefully. “Very well, Mr. Graves, tell my why you and your wife are divorcing.”

I launched into my tale of woe: the incriminating video, the mistaken identity and my current situation. She listened without interrupting until I had finished, then steepled her fingers and leaned forward. “It sounds to me like you don’t really want this divorce.”

“No, I don’t. And I wouldn’t even be here today if it weren’t for that damned video. What I want is to find out who did this to me, regain my reputation and take legal action against the people who set me up.”

Before she could respond, I hurried on, “I can show you the video if it would help. It runs about ten minutes and…”

She waved me off. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Graves.” She gave a sigh and leaned back in her chair. “Let me share some facts with you. First, despite what you may have read or seen on TV, most law firms do not have an investigative capacity. If you want someone to undertake an investigation, you’ll need to hire a detective agency. I’ll warn you that a good one won’t be much less expensive than a good law firm. There are several agencies we work with, and I’ll be happy to provide their names if you wish.

“However, my strong advice to you is not to bother. The truth is, your wife doesn’t need a reason to divorce you, if that’s her wish. This is a no-fault state, and either you or she can end your marriage at any time for any reason. So even if you were to uncover incontestable proof that you did not commit adultery, it likely wouldn’t matter at this point.”

I started to object, but she held up her hand to stop me.

“Think about your former employer: would they take you back if you somehow proved you were innocent six months from now? It’s unlikely — the damage has been done. It’s the same with your wife. All your efforts to prove your innocence are only going to remind her about the details of the lie.”

“But that’s not fair!” I burst out.

“No, it’s not, but the real world often isn’t.” She shook her head. “I can give you a long list of celebrities who were charged with heinous acts only to later be exonerated. But the list of those who regained their former level of stardom is a far shorter one.”

I slumped in my chair. “So you’re saying I should do nothing, just accept this injustice without putting up a fight?”

She gave me a pitying look. “I’m not saying that’s what you should do, but I am saying undertaking a quixotic quest to prove your innocence is likely to be expensive, time-consuming and ultimately futile. You’ll be much better off if you focus on moving forward with your life.”

She picked up the summons. “As for the divorce, I’ll make sure the terms are fair and the cost is minimal. With no children to consider, you and your wife will simply split all your assets evenly and be done.”

I sighed. “Alright, let’s do it your way. But I don’t have to like it.”

She smiled sympathetically. “Resentment is an acceptable response.”

I was pretty upset when I got back to the motel. Like it or not, it looked like I was getting a divorce. Like it or not, the house we’d bought only three years ago was going to be sold, and the proceeds, along with our other assets, were all going to be divided. And like it or not, I was stuck with a reputation as an adulterer who was so stupid he posted evidence of his cheating on the Internet. Damn!

I needed a friend to talk to, so I called Dave, one of the guys I used to play tennis with. He couldn’t have dinner with me, but he agreed to meet me at a little bar we liked not far from the university for drinks afterward. I knew he wouldn’t have any miraculous solutions, but a friendly ear to unload on seemed awfully attractive just now.

When I got to the bar, Dave wasn’t there yet. I spotted a few people at the other end watching some ball game on the tv, and passed a table with four girls, three African-American and one white, all laughing and gossiping. I figured they were students at the university. I went over to the bar to wait for Dave.

Not long after I got a beer, my phone went off, and I saw it was Dave calling. With a sinking feeling, I answered. “Hey, Dave, where are you?”

“Sorry, Peter, I’m not going to be able to make it. Janis heard about our plans and let me know in no uncertain terms that you’re on the pole list.”

“The ‘pole list’?” What the hell’s that?”

He sighed. “It means I can’t get within a 10-foot pole of you, buddy, or she’ll have my balls. Apparently, the wives have ruled you off limits. Sorry, man.”

I started to make a sharp comeback, then thought better of it. “That’s OK, Dave, I understand. We’ll do it again when things cool down a little.”

“Yeah, that sounds good. Sorry, Peter.”

I put my phone back in my pocket and took a long sip of my Blue Moon, more depressed than ever.

“Are you the guy in that video on PornHub?” a feminine voice to my right asked. Startled, I looked around to see one of the black coeds who’d been drinking at the table. I glanced over and saw the other three watching and giggling among themselves.

I started to explain the deception to my new companion but stopped when I realized that it wasn’t worth trying. I shrugged my shoulders. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Oh, wow, so you really must be into black chicks.”

“Uh, no, I mean yes, uh, I mean, I guess skin tone doesn’t mean that much to me, one way or the other.”

As she digested that deep insight, I took the opportunity to look her over. She had rich brown skin, a pretty face with prominent cheekbones, a nice figure and a modified Afro to top everything off. All in all, very cute.

“I’m Peter,” I said, offering my hand. She shook it. “I’m Tamika. I’m a senior at the university.”

She’d brought her cocktail with her, and we drank together as I got her to tell me about college and her plans a little. It was just casual conversation, but I appreciated it. At least she wasn’t treating me like an outcast. I bought her another round to encourage her to continue.

Finally she put her empty down on the bar. “I really should be getting back to the dorm.” She gave me a sideways glance. “Would you mind giving me a lift?”

I looked over toward the table and saw that her companions had gone. “Sure, no problem.”

As Tamika sat next to me in my car, giving me directions through the university, I couldn’t help noticing how high her skirt had slipped up her thighs. If she saw me looking, she gave no indication, and she made no effort to adjust it.

I found a parking spot outside her residence hall and turned off the engine. “Would you mind walking me back to my room?” she asked in a low voice. “There’ve been a couple of assaults on campus, and a girl can’t be too careful.”

“Of course,” I told her, and went around to open the car door. The skirt slid even higher as she got out, and I tried not to be too obvious as I looked.

She took my arm as we walked down the sidewalk to her dorm. When we reached her room, she unlocked the door and led me inside, not bothering to switch on the light. “You know,” she said coyly, “it really got to me when you went down on that girl. My boyfriend always wants me to blow him, but once I’m done, he just wants to fuck.” She looked up at me, her eyes wide and lust-filled. “I’d really like to know what that’s like, just once.”

“I think I can help with that,” I said huskily, and pulled her to me. She sought out my mouth hungrily, thrusting her tongue in search of mine. She tasted of alcohol and desire.

When she pulled back she was panting, and she quickly managed to strip off most of her clothing. Then she flopped back on the bed and lay there, her legs hanging over the edge, her breast heaving.

I dropped to my knees in front of her and began running my fingertips up her inner thighs. She gave a little moan. I bent forward, spreading her legs apart, and gazed at her closely trimmed pussy. Her outer lips were already gaping open and I could see the pink inner lips in the light from the window. Her clitoris was swollen with desire, and I could clearly smell the scent of highly aroused female. When I blew on her pussy, she moaned, “Please, oh please.”

Suddenly I wanted to be that sexual master she believed me to be. I leaned down and kissed the lips of her pussy, then gently ran my tongue from bottom to top. “Oh god, oh god,” she whimpered, arching her back. With that I began licking in earnest, first with vertical strokes, then circling her clit. With every lick I could hear her give a little cry.

Suddenly I heard a sound, and when I looked over my shoulder, her roommate was sitting up on the other bed. It was the white girl. “Go on — don’t mind me,” she whispered. “I’ll just watch.”

I turned back to Tamika and began to flick her clit rapidly with the tip of my tongue. Immediately she began pumping her hips, desperate for more contact, more pressure. She began moaning continuously, and I could hear the tone of her voice rising in pitch. When I judged she was close to orgasm, I stopped. Her hips hung in the air for a moment, then sank to the bed in frustration.

I gave her a moment, then began to repeat my routine. She was still at a high level of arousal, so it didn’t take much for me to bring her back to the brink. Then I stopped again.

She groaned desperately. “Please finish me, please. I’m so close.”

I heard a snicker from the other bed, and when I glanced over, Tamika’s roommate had stripped down to her panties. Her hand was buried in her crotch and I could see her fingers moving. “Don’t leave her hanging like that,” she whispered.

I gave her a nod and turned back to my new friend. Leaning forward, I began a third round of oral assault, starting slow but accelerating. Now Tamika was almost screaming, and I wondered how thick the dorm walls were. As she neared her peak, I focused all my attention on her clit. The desperate coed bridged her body up so only her shoulders and her heels were touching the bed. Instead of stopping this time, I took her clit between my lips and sucked hard on it.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god, I’m cumming!” she screamed, and then spasmed violently, her thighs clutching me until I feared for my neck. Finally Tamika collapsed on the mattress, her legs flopping open, her arms falling limp.

By that point I was highly aroused myself. But when I leaned over to ask her if I could have her, I realized that she had passed out. There was a little drool leaking from the corner of her mouth, and then she began to snore.

Frustrated, I slumped back on my knees. I was about to look for their bathroom so I could beat off, when her roommate spoke up. She was seated on the edge of the bed, leaning toward me. “My boyfriend won’t eat me like that either,” she said in a little girl’s voice. I noticed that the panties had disappeared.

“If I take care of you, will you let me fuck you?”

“Oh, yes!”

Hastily I scooted over to her bedside, lifted her legs and attacked her pussy. She began moaning continuously the minute I touched her. Watching me work on Tamika had obviously aroused her to a fever pitch.

As I ate her pussy, I began stripping off my clothes. By the time I was bare, she was already nearing her peak. When I judged the time was right, I pulled my lips away. But instead of teasing her, I rose up and slid my cock all the way into her hot wetness. She gave a squeal and then threw her arms around my shoulders, pulling me into her. I began to pump full force, unable to wait any longer. Fortunately, she was right there with me, and in no time the two of us exploded almost simultaneously. Her orgasm must have lasted a full minute, and I gave her several more thrusts as I emptied myself.

Finally, I pulled out and stood up. Swinging her legs onto the bed, I pulled the covers over her as she stared up at me. After getting dressed, I went over to Tamika’s bed and made sure she was covered as well. As I opened the door, I heard the roommate whisper, “Hey, Mister, you were way better in real life than in that video.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I gave her a thumbs-up and closed the door behind me.

When I woke the next morning, I felt disoriented. Did that really happen? I wondered as I drank my morning coffee at the fast-food joint where I went for breakfast. Memories of the previous night’s adventure kept flashing through my mind. There had to be some moral to the story, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what it was.

Nevertheless, when I looked back on it later, that night seemed to mark a change in my fortunes. Living in a motel wasn’t cheap, and I’d been nervously eyeing my dwindling savings account. But a week later, while driving through a neighborhood near the university, I spotted a “Room to Let” sign in front of a large older home. Curious, I parked out front and went to inquire.

What the couple who lived there were offering turned out to be a furnished apartment over their garage. They’d fixed up some years ago to attract university students and rented it out by the semester. This year, however, their renter had left unexpectedly to go home, and they needed a new tenant.

The apartment was larger than the motel room I had, and the furnishings were nicer. Best of all, the monthly rent they were asking was significantly lower than the daily rate I was paying the motel. I signed a month-to-month lease on the spot.

I’d just finished moving my meager possessions into my new apartment when I got a hit from one of the job search sites I’d registered for. The company asking about me was called StickTite, an odd name I’d never heard before. But given that I’d had exactly zero response from all my other inquiries, there was no question that I’d hear them out.

I was even more curious when I drove up to the address they gave me: a plain building in a group of one-story buildings that appeared to be warehouses. When I warily opened the glass door, a young man was there to greet me. I assumed he was the HR rep. He introduced himself as Bob Pickford and led me back to a small, unprepossessing office consisting of a metal desk and several plastic-covered chairs.

My skepticism must have been obvious. “Don’t let this place put you off,” he explained, “it’s our data center. We don’t have any offices — everyone works remotely. Our team likes it, and we save a boatload of money not renting office space.”

His company, he went on, was a start-up developing network security systems. “When we protect a corporate system, we tag every byte of code so it can’t be modified. If a hacker gets through our outer ring and tries to steal the data, our tags ‘follow’ them back to their base of operations, just like a sticktight clings to your clothes when you’re walking in the woods. That way we can identify exactly who the intruders are and enable an appropriate response. Think about it: no more systems disruptions, no more ransomware attacks, no more hiding in offshore locations.”

Now I was interested. “Sounds promising,” I told him. “So why do you need someone like me?”

He gave me a grin. “I think I’m pretty good at systems design, but I’m not an expert in security. The bad guys have lots of ways to attack systems, and I’m hoping your experience will help us block the ones we haven’t thought of yet.”

The more we chatted about the company, the more interested I became. Likewise, Bob responded enthusiastically to some of the examples I shared with him. Finally, he held up his hand. “I’ve heard enough, Peter. You’re exactly what we’re looking for. I’d like to offer you the job.”

I hesitated before I shook the hand he offered. “That’s great, Bob, but are you authorized to do that?”

“I think so,” he said calmly. “It’s my company.”

It took me a moment to digest that. “Oh, OK. Well then, can you tell me what the job pays?”

He blushed. “Oh, right.” Then he quoted me an annual salary that was a pleasant surprise: slightly more than what I’d been making at my old job. But before I could agree, he went on. “However, only half of that is cash. The other half is in StickTite stock options.”

I gulped. On the one hand, I’d be taking a big gamble on a start-up, and while I waited for the options to pay off, things would be pretty tight. On the other hand, I had no offers to date and no prospects. If worse comes to worse, I told myself, I’ll be no worse off than I am now. “Count me in,” I told him, sticking out my hand.

Working from home was an adjustment, but the dozen or so people who made up the StickTite team were bright and enthusiastic about the new company. Their welcoming attitude helped overcome any isolation I felt. My financial situation was still tight, but at least I wasn’t draining my savings account any more.

The next good news I got was a call from my real estate broker. She’d found a buyer for our house. The offer didn’t leave much for Estelle and me to split after closing costs, but since we’d taken out a loan to do some upgrades on the house when we’d bought it, I wasn’t expecting a windfall. The profit would barely cover what I’d had to spend from my savings while I was unemployed, but it was better than nothing.

With the house now sold and the proceeds divided between Estelle and me, there was nothing left standing in the way of finalizing the divorce. I was still sad about the end of my marriage, but after my talk with Reyna Menudos, I’d decided to cooperate with the process. It still rankled that I hadn’t done what Estelle thought I’d done, but if Estelle wanted a divorce, there was no way I could stop it.

Reyna did a good job for me, wangling an early hearing in court. So only four months after this whole nightmare started, I was a single man again. She offered to mail me the final decree, but I decided to go to her office to pick it up. In addition to wanting to get out of my home office for a bit, I had another motive.

“Back when I first met you,” I told her after she gave me the papers, “you said you knew a good detective agency here in town. I’d like to get their name and number.”

She cocked her head and gave me an inquiring look. “I don’t understand, Peter. Your divorce is final; what’s the point?”

“Because I want to know the truth,” I replied. “My reputation got trashed and my life has been turned upside down. If I can, I want to find out what really happened.”

She shook her head, reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a card. “Here. Tell Mitch I referred you and to give you a fair price.” As she handed it over, she gave me a stern look. “Here’s a little free advice, Peter. If you do find out who did this, don’t go looking for revenge. I don’t want to have to defend you in a criminal case.”

Mitch was Mitchell Fredericks, head of the Fredericks Detective Agency. He welcomed me into his spartan, one-man office and invited me to tell my tale of woe. When I finished, I offered to show him the sex clip, which I’d copied on a flash drive. We sat down in front of his monitor and watched the whole ten minutes or so in silence.

Afterwards, he shook his head with a wry smile. “I’ve seen plenty of porn in my day, and this isn’t very good.” Then his face grew serious. “More importantly, I didn’t see anything in there to help us prove that’s not you.”

I started to protest, but he waved me off. “Don’t get me wrong: I’m not saying it is you, Peter. I doubt you’d be looking for my help if it was. But someone went to a lot of trouble to make it look like you. So here’s my question: who’d want to deepfake you?”

“To do what?”

“They call it ‘deepfake.’ It means someone with a lot of time and serious expertise in digital imagery has manipulated this video to look like you. That gives us a couple of avenues to investigate. The first is to try to figure out who had a motive to do this. Let’s start with that one — do you have any enemies? Is there someone who would benefit from doing this?”

I’d thought about that many times ever since it happened. “The person who would have the most to gain,” I told him, “would be someone in my office who’d get my job if I were out of the way. My best guess is a guy named Jonathan Swayze. He was jealous of me, always trying to undermine me with our boss. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if he was the one.”

“Anyone else?”

“Not really. I thought about Estelle, my ex-wife, but that doesn’t make any sense. Like Reyna told me, if Estelle wanted to divorce me, she could get one for any reason or no reason at all. No, Jonathan is the only one I can think of who’d really have something to gain.”

“Okay, then we need to start by checking him out and your other old work associates as well. We also ought to talk to your old friends and neighbors, just in case they know anything that might help.”

The detective leaned back in his chair and interlaced his hands behind his head. “When Reyna called to tell me you’d be coming, she mentioned that you’re not exactly rolling in the dough these days. If you want to save a little money, how about doing some of the legwork on this investigation. That OK with you?”

“Sure, I can do that.” I thought a moment. “How about if I check out my contacts at my old job and you check out my friends and neighbors?” I gave him a wry smile. “The last I heard, my name was mud in my old neighborhood, so I probably wouldn’t have much luck there.”

“That sounds reasonable. If you’ll give me some names and numbers, I’ll get started.” He reached down and pulled the flash drive out of his computer. “The other thing we need to do is to get an expert to look at this video. Maybe there’s something we’ve overlooked, or some clue in how the fake was done that will point us to your enemy. Are you flexible, time-wise?”

I shrugged. “I can be.”

“”Okay, I’ve worked with a couple of firms who do this sort of thing. Let me see if I can set up something for you tomorrow with one of them. I’ll text you the details.”

It was still early enough when I got back to my apartment, so I decided to get started checking out my old company. I knew just who to call: Mary, our old department secretary. If anyone would help me, I felt certain she would.

When I reached her, she wasn’t as hostile as she’d been the day I got fired; in fact she seemed genuinely glad to hear from me. We chatted a bit. She told me how her kids were doing and “tsk, tsked” sympathetically when I told her Estelle and I were divorced. Finally, I told her I was still trying to prove my innocence, and, when she agreed to help, I asked what I really wanted to know.

“So who wound up getting my job? Was it Jonathan Swayze?”

“Swayze? I guess you didn’t hear: Jon turned in his resignation a week after you left. He went to work for one of our competitors.”

“Well I’ll be damned! So who got my office?”

She made no attempt to disguise the anger in her voice. “No one! They wound up dividing your responsibilities among half-a-dozen different people. Now, not only is everyone scrambling like mad to get the extra work done, but nobody even got an increase in pay! I don’t mind telling you, morale here is in the dumper.”

“Damn, I’m sorry, Mary. That sounds like a raw deal.” We chatted a little more and then I made my excuses to ring off. Afterwards, I thought about what I’d learned. Whoever did this to me, it sure wasn’t Swayze — he had nothing to gain. And frankly, I don’t know anyone else at the company who’d have the brains or the balls to pull off a deepfake. Unless Mitch comes up with someone else, this looks like a dead end.

Just then my phone beeped. It was a text from Mitch telling me I had an appointment the next day after lunch with Digital Signals Analysis. I marked my online calendar to let my colleagues at work know I’d be unavailable at that time. Then I checked Google Maps to tell me how to find the place. It was located in an office park about five miles away.

When I got there the next day, I found the company was located on the third floor of a nondescript office building. The door was plain wood with a neat, metal sign. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I knocked.

“Come in,” came a feminine voice, and when I pushed open the door I stopped in surprise. “Zahira!” I exclaimed, and hurried over to give my old college friend a big hug. “You’re Digital Signals Analysis?”

She returned my hug warmly. “So it is you, Peter. When I saw the name Mitchell gave me, I hoped it might be.”

We pulled up chairs and began to catch up with each other. Zahira and I had met in the engineering school at college as freshmen and immediately became friends. She was of Indian descent, but her parents had grown up in the States and she had no discernable accent. I found her quietly intelligent, warm and thoughtful, even if she was a bit on the shy side. If I hadn’t been dating Estelle, I would have been interested in her that way too. But as it was, we became good friends instead. When she pursued Electrical Engineering and I focused on Computer Sciences, our paths diverged.

Now, as I looked at her, I remembered why I’d found her attractive. She had lustrous black hair, a pretty face and a trim figure. Yet, just like back then, she seemed to go out of her way to hide her looks. Her hair was tied up on the back of her head in an unflattering bun. She wasn’t wearing make-up and, worst of all, she had on a knee-length white lab coat that disguised her waistline and made her look heavy. Only the high cheekbones and dark shining eyes hinted at her real appearance.

Just like before, she was too shy to talk about herself very much; instead she wanted to hear all about me. In short order I was recounting my trials and tribulations as a result of “my” porno career.

“That’s just terrible, Peter,” she sympathized. “I’m so sorry you’ve had to go through all that. Let me have a look at the video so I can determine how I can help you.”

Somewhat uncomfortably, I handed over the flash drive and she led me to a large monitor connected to a computer system I didn’t recognize. As it began to play, I winced at the sex playing out on the screen and the passion-filled cries from the young woman on the bed. “I’m sorry you have to watch this, Zahira,” I apologized. “I swear to you that’s not me.”

“Don’t apologize, Peter. Of course it’s not you. You would never… oh!” She stopped abruptly as the male turned toward the camera, grinned and flashed a thumbs-up. A grave expression came over her face. “Now I see the problem.”

We watched the video several more times, with Zahira furiously scribbling notes to herself. After the third run-through, she stopped the computer and turned to me. “Alright, Peter, let’s start with the obvious. Do you have any tattoos, scars or visible defects?”

I understood immediately. “No, nothing other than that scar on my eyebrow that shows up in the video.”

She nodded and made a note. “Height and weight?”

“I’m six feet one and weigh 175 pounds the last time I checked.”

“Excellent: ideal body mass index. OK, what kind of underwear do you have on?”

“Uh… what?!”

Her caramel-colored complexion turned red. “I suppose I didn’t ask that properly. I need to shoot some video of you to compare your body to the male in the video. I wouldn’t ask you to strip completely, of course, so briefs or boxer-briefs would work best, you see?”

It was my turn to blush. “Um, OK, I guess I can do that.”

“You can use the restroom to change,” she told me, pointing to a door.

When I returned, stripped to my boxer briefs, I felt very uncomfortable, but she only glanced at me. Pointing toward a conference table on one side of the room, she said, “We’ll use that in lieu of a bed. I’ll set up the camera in the same position as the one in the video.”

While I sat in a chair, she took a high-quality video camera off a shelf. Next she placed a small side table near the conference table, using a tape measure to ensure the correct distance between the two. Then, after using marking tape to make an X on the table, she motioned me over and handed me the video camera. “Remember at the beginning how the man in the video set up the camera? I want you to do the same thing, being careful not to show your face. Next, please go over and climb up on the conference table and rest on your knees. Finally I’ll have you turn and face the camera, just like the video.”

The first time I felt extremely self-conscious about parading around in my underwear in front of Zahira. But after we repeated the whole sequence several times, I began to feel like an actor walking through a scene with a perfectionist for a director.

Finally she was satisfied. “OK, you can put your clothes on while I do some measurements.”

When I was dressed, I walked to her big monitor to look over her shoulder. She had the original video on one side, and the new footage she’d just shot on the other. She looked up at me with satisfaction. “I can say with a fair degree of confidence that the man, um, entertaining the young lady is not you. He is approximately an inch shorter and five pounds heavier than you.”

“That’s fantastic, Zahira!”

She wasn’t smiling. “I’m only 78% certain my calculations are correct, Peter. I don’t think that will prove sufficient for a skeptical audience.”

“Maybe not, but still…”

“That’s not all, Peter. I’m 97% certain that the head and face turned toward the camera at the end of the video belong to you.”

My mouth fell open. “That’s not possible — I wasn’t there. I never, er, ‘entertained’ that girl.”

Zahira patted my arm. “I believe you, Peter, honestly. I think what’s been done is that two separate video sequences have been married very artfully to make it look like you were the male in the resulting video. You’re the victim of a deepfake.”

I sat down, shaking my head in disbelief. “Can they actually do something like that?”

She nodded. “Actually, it’s possible to do much more. The portion of the video where you turned to face the camera was very brief, so it wouldn’t take that much work. I’m guessing that whoever did this got hold of some cellphone video of you smiling for the camera and spliced it in, then manipulated it so that the lighting, skin tones and other differences all matched up. It’s not simple to do, but for an expert it’s entirely possible.”

“Is there any way to prove that’s what was done? For that matter, is there any way to tell who might have done it?”

She shook her head doubtfully. “I can’t say for sure, but it’s unlikely.” Then, seeing my dismay, she offered, “Let me look at this more closely and I should be able to tell you something definitive tomorrow. Could we get together to talk about it over lunch?”

“I’d like that,” I told her, and she brightened.

I had a lot to think about that evening. I’d known all along that the video was faked, I just didn’t know how it had been done. Now the question was whether I could convince Estelle and our old friends. And what about my old company? How would I even go about doing that? Zahira hadn’t exactly handed me a smoking gun.

Later, lying in bed, I had another thought: Do I even want to try? Oh, I definitely wanted the truth known and my reputation restored. But did I still want to try to get back with Estelle? I resented how little faith she’d shown in me, but I knew I would have reacted the same way if our roles had been reversed. Even if I could convince her about what really happened, our lives had been separated and a lot of water had gone under the bridge. The same was true about our old friends.

And what about trying to get my old job back? Did I even want that? There were a lot of risks to my new company, but the work was a lot more exciting than my old responsibilities.

I fell asleep without any answers.

I got an early start on my work the next morning so I’d have more time to spend with Zahira. It was good to reconnect with her, and I was eager to hear if she’d uncovered anything else.

When I got to the restaurant we’d agreed on, I was surprised to see another woman sitting at the table with Zahira. “This is my sister Priya,” Zahira introduced us. “She’s here on vacation. I forgot she was arriving today — I hope you don’t mind if she joins us.”

“Not at all,” I said and shook Priya’s hand. It was obvious that she and Zahira were sisters, but where Zahira looked like she’d just come from the lab, Priya looked like she’d just stepped down from the runway of a fashion show. Her clothing was stylish and sexy without being inappropriate, her long black hair was stylishly coiffed, and her make-up looked professionally done.

“So,” she said in a warm voice, “you’re the Peter Graves Zahira is always talking about. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

I couldn’t help noticing the blush that came over Zahira’s face before she looked hastily away.

“So where have you come from and what do you do, Priya?” I asked after we were all seated.

“I’m currently living in London,” she explained casually. “I’ve been doing a little acting in a production in the West End that just wound up. It’s been a bit demanding, so I decided to take a break and come spend a little time catching up with my big sister.”

To be honest, I was a bit intimidated by Priya’s glamorous appearance and credentials, but she proved to be unaffected and quick to put me at ease. It was also soon clear that she was very close to her sister, despite the different paths the two women had followed.

After a few minutes of pleasant conversation about her life, she turned the conversation towards me. “Zahira has been telling me a little about the calamity that has befallen you. How did it all come about?”

And with that I found myself recounting my tale of woe one more time. It helped that both sisters seemed so supportive, and both expressed anger at what I’d had to go through.

By the time I finished recapping my situation we’d all finished lunch, and Zahira suggested we return to her office to continue the discussion. I hesitated at the idea of watching porn with not one but two attractive ladies, but I quickly learned that Zahira’s investigation had been done at the pixel level, which wasn’t sexy at all.

Seated in front of Zahira’s big computer monitor, we watched as she pointed out evidence of the tampering that had been done to graft one video onto another. She also had charts comparing color scales and lighting levels. My heart sank as I watched: it was all way too technical to convince a lay person. The bottom line was there was no smoking gun to prove it wasn’t me in the video.

Just as Zahira was finishing, my phone rang, and when I saw it was Mitch Fredericks, the detective, calling, I put it on speaker so the others could hear as well.

“How’s the investigation going over there, Zahira?” he asked when I told him where I was.

“It’s pretty clear to me that we’re dealing with a deepfake here, Mitch,” she explained. “There are a number of telltale signs that point that way. Having said that, I haven’t found anything that would indicate the source of the deception.”

“I’ve struck out on my end as well,” I added, describing what I’d found out from my former secretary. “I guess it’s possible that Jonathan Swayze, my old rival, might have done all this for revenge, but if so, he didn’t gain much from all that effort. I really think that’s a dead end. What about you — have you found out anything?”

“Actually, I may have something of interest for you. Were you aware that your ex-wife has a boyfriend?”

“No, but I’m not surprised. She’s free to go out with anyone she wants now.”

“Would it surprise you to learn that she’s been seen with her boyfriend from the time you first moved out of the house? And a couple of her neighbors hinted that she might have been seeing him a lot earlier than that?”

My temperature started to rise. “No, I was most definitely not aware of that.”

“Would it surprise you if I told you her boyfriend’s name is Mario Ignacio?”

“Son of a bitch!” I exploded. “He was the guy who was supposedly giving Estelle art lessons!”

“Yeah, well there’s reason to believe he was giving your wife lessons, but not in graphic arts. This Ignacio is quite a character. He fancies himself a great artist, but he can’t make a living selling his art. The word is that he looks for gullible women to support him until they wise up to what’s going on. Supposedly, he persuaded his last victim to divorce her husband and move in with him. Then, when she’d used up all her divorce settlement, he left her and moved here.”

“I can’t believe Estelle could be so stupid,” I moaned.

“And there’s something more, Peter. Ignacio’s preferred medium is digital art. If we’re looking for a suspect, I think we just found one.”

Zahira gasped; then she began peppering Mitch with questions. Finally I cleared my throat and spoke up. “Let’s slow down and see where we are. First, it sounds like we have a credible suspect, one who’s capable of creating a ‘deepfake.’ But, do we have any way to prove he did it?” I asked, looking at Zahira.

“No,” she conceded. “Short of getting hold of his computer and finding the altered files, there’s no way to prove it conclusively. And, as I indicated earlier, there’s no way to prove definitively that the video on the porn site is truly a deepfake.”

“There’s another thing that bothers me,” I said. “My lawyer, told me that if Estelle wanted a divorce she could get one for any reason or no reason. If she wanted to dump me to be with her boyfriend, why bother getting him to create a deepfake? She gets half our joint assets without taking any risk.”

Silence gripped the room until Priya’s proper English accent spoke up. “I know exactly why your ex-wife would do such a thing. Don’t you see,” she went on, “if she walks out on Peter to be with her lover, she’s the tart. Her friends, her family and everyone who knows her would look down on her for being unfaithful. But if she can make Peter out to be the cheater, she gets all their support and sympathy. And what could be more convincing than videographic proof that her husband was unfaithful?”

“You’re right,” Mitch’s voice came through the phone. “Their female friends would be disgusted by Peter’s infidelity, and their male friends would be shocked at his stupidity for posting the proof on the internet.”

“Son of a bitch!” I cursed again. “It’s all starting to make sense.” I looked at Zahira and Priya. “It’s bad enough that Estelle cheated. But what really gets to me is that she was willing to ruin my life just so she wouldn’t be criticized.”

I lifted my hands in a half-shrug. “So what do I do about it? And don’t say ‘let it go,’ because there’s no way I can to that.”

“Please don’t think about violence, Peter” Zahira said quickly. “I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

“I know, Zahira, but it sure is tempting after what they’ve put me through.”

“What we ought to do is the same thing they did: create a deepfake video that would show the world what they’re really like,” Mitch suggested.

“Yeah, that would have a certain poetic justice to it,” I agreed, “but I don’t have a clue how to do that.” I shook my head in discouragement. “To be honest, I don’t have any ideas at all.”

To our surprise, it was Priya who spoke up. “We don’t need violence and we don’t need digital trickery.” She gave us a knowing smile. “All we need are humanity’s oldest weaknesses: greed and lust.”

When she told us what she had in mind, I immediately opposed the idea. “That’s too bizarre — they’d never buy a wild story like that.”

Zahira was equally adamant. “It’s too dangerous, Priya. You’d be putting yourself at risk. Who knows what Mario is capable of, or Estelle, for that matter?”

Before Priya could respond, Mitch jumped in. “I don’t think the risk element is all that high. There’s nothing in Mario’s past to indicate a violent nature. Besides, we could set it up so I’d be around to provide protection to Priya. I could be her chauffeur, and she could have a panic button to use if she feels threatened.”

Everyone began to toss out ideas and, much to my surprise, we soon found ourselves hashing out details that would make the fake more credible. Priya was already sketching out dialogue, and it was obvious she loved the idea of starring in her own drama. Maybe we can actually pull this off, I thought by the time we finished.

 

******************

 

Nine Months Prior

When she finished her sandwich, Estelle Graves sat the food wrapping down on the park bench and turned to her sister. “I want to tell you something in strictest confidence, Kayla. I think Peter and I are going to split up.”

“Oh, no!” Kayla gasped. “You two have always been the perfect couple.” She paused and squinted her eyes. “Why would you want to do that?”

Estelle shook her head sadly. “It’s just that the spark has gone out of our marriage. I guess Peter and I have drifted apart, that’s all.”

Her sister peered at her shrewdly. “You’re sure there isn’t a spark coming from some other man, Estelle?”

“Of course not! How can you even suggest such a thing, Kayla?”

“All I’m saying is that the whole family likes Peter. He’s absolutely devoted to you, and everyone can see that. Mom and Dad think the world of him. If you two split, everyone is going to take it pretty hard. And if there’s something else going on with you, it’s going to get pretty uncomfortable back home around the Thanksgiving table, know what I mean?”

“You’re just being silly,” Estelle huffed. “Anyway, I’m just thinking out loud and you’re always a good one to help me work through things. But I just wanted to get your perspective — I’m not about to do anything rash. So please don’t say anything to anybody about all this, okay?”

Later that afternoon she drove to Mario Ignacio’s house, which also served as his studio, for her weekly art lesson. When he opened the door, however, she rushed frantically into her lover’s arms. The tall, dark-haired young man was startled by her passion, but responded quickly, embracing her and eagerly returning her kisses.

Insistently she walked him backward to the small sofa until he plopped down. Instead of coming with him, however, she slid to her knees on the floor and began clawing frantically at his belt and zipper. When she had succeeded, she pulled his jeans and briefs down, then attacked his rapidly growing cock with her lips and tongue. Sucking him into her mouth, she made slurping noises as she eagerly worshiped the object of her desire.

Mario dropped his hands to his sides and let his head loll back on the sofa, loving the sensations Estelle was generating. But before he could grow too excited, she scrambled to her feet, hiked up her skirt and straddled him. Grasping his fully engorged cock, the woman impatiently aligned him with her inflamed pussy and impaled herself.

Briefly Mario realized that she must have removed her panties before she arrived. But her frantic rocking and urgent entreaties quickly drove all other thoughts from his mind. He grasped her ass and used it to piston her up and down on him. Her whimpers and moans made it clear that she loved the rhythm he was setting.

There was no way the two of them could sustain that level of lust for long, and both quickly began building to their inevitable climax. Estelle hit hers first, gasping and crying out as she arched her back and stiffened. Seconds later, Mario followed, groaning and cursing as he drove his cock as deeply into his lover as possible before emptying himself into her.

The artist clutched his lover tightly to his chest as both tried to recover their breath. After a minute, he pushed her away enough to look at her with a quizzical expression. “Not that I didn’t enjoy it, babe, but what brought that on?”

Estelle’s satisfied expression vanished as she began to recount her conversation with her sister. “I don’t want my family and friends to hate you — to hate us — when I split up with ‘Saint Peter,'” she said mournfully. “If only there was some way to make him the bad guy in all this.”

The artist looked off into the distance, contemplating the problem. Suddenly, a grin flashed across his lips. “Have you got a picture of Peter on your phone?” he asked.

“I’m sure I do — why?”

“Send it to me and I’ll show you.”

When she sent it to him, he lifted her off of him, pulled up his pants and strode over to his computer. Estelle watched him working, admiring yet again his lean, muscular torso and his dark, curly hair.

After a while she let her attention drift to the prints of his art that Mario had hung on his walls. Her teacher-turned-lover specialized in near photo-realistic computer art. But what really made his work stand out was his subject matter: animals at play, mothers caring for their young, wildlife exploring their habitat. “Bambi on steroids,” one critic had called it, and Estelle could understand why. Yet the elaborately detailed whimsy and sentimentality were irresistible as far as she was concerned, and she firmly believed Mario was a genius just waiting to be appreciated.

“Come here and have a look,” he beckoned, interrupting her reverie. Curious, she went over to his side and stared expectantly at the monitor. He pressed a key and a video began to play.

The camera had been placed at the head of a bed on which a naked woman was lying. On top of her was a naked man, vigorously plunging his cock into the moaning woman. The man looked up into the camera and winked.

Mario paused the video at that spot. “What do you think of that?” he asked.

“I think it’s disgusting!” Estelle snapped. “Why would anyone want to post something like that on the internet?”

Mario didn’t answer; instead he pressed a different key. Instantly Peter’s face was superimposed over the face of the anonymous lover. Estelle gasped. “Oh my god, how did you do that?” Then she looked more closely. “This won’t work, Mario — it would never fool anyone. The face is too large for the body, the skin colors are different — it’s an obvious fake.”

He nodded at her. “You’re right — it is obvious. But don’t forget I did this in five minutes. If I can get some good video of Peter and find the right porn to work with, I can do something that will look absolutely real.” He grinned. “What would your family and friends think of ‘Saint Peter’ if they saw him in such a compromising position?”

“They would freak out!” she said. “He’d never be allowed to show his face in my parents’ house again.”

The artist grinned. “Then I think we have a plan.”

“I don’t know,” she hesitated. “If we do this, it could really mess up Peter’s life. It seems a little over-the-top to me.”

It was a struggle for him to hide his impatience. “If you really think so, babe, then I don’t see any other way for you to divorce him and still keep your reputation intact.” He sighed. “I know how important your family is to you. Maybe we should just call it off.”

Her expression revealed her dismay. “No, no, Mario, that’s not what I want. I couldn’t live without you.” She took a deep breath. “Alright, let’s do it. He’ll get over it.”

 

******************

 

Present Day

“Can’t you find somewhere else to leave your dirty clothes?” Estelle griped as she maneuvered around in their cramped bedroom.

“We wouldn’t have to worry about that if we’d been able to move into your house like we planned,” Mario shot back.

Her shoulders slumped. “I know, I know. I thought for sure I’d get the house in the divorce settlement after the judge saw the video, but he said it didn’t matter.”

He brightened. “Still, shouldn’t you be getting the money from the sale of the place soon?”

She nodded. “The closing is this week, so I should get a check. But don’t get your hopes too high — it won’t be as much as we expected. Not only do I have to split the proceeds with Peter, but I forgot about that loan we took out to do some improvements when we bought the place. Paying that off is going to cut into the profits even more.”

Mario cursed silently. After the divorce he’d thought Estelle would be able to finance a major exhibition of his art that would get him the recognition he deserved. Now it looked like all she’d be able to afford would be to rent a tent. Why don’t things ever go my way? he moaned to himself.

At that moment, the doorbell rang, and when Estelle went to answer, she found a FedEx man on the porch. She signed for the cardboard envelope, then brought it to Mario. “It’s addressed to you. Were you expecting something?” she asked.

“Not that I know of,” he answered, and quickly ripped it open. Inside was a smaller envelope, this one made of what appeared to be parchment. It was addressed to “The Artist Mario Ignacio.” Below it was marked “Personal and Confidential.”

Curious, he took an X-ACTO knife and sliced through the flap. Inside was a sheet of stationery that also appeared to be parchment. In elaborate calligraphy, it was headed “Bapak Asmuni Bokarnoputra”.

My Dear Mr. Ignacio,

I have admired your work for many years. Now I believe the time has finally come when the rest of the art world will recognize your most admirable talent. This affords a unique opportunity to the two of us for both artistic and financial reward.

Accordingly, I have dispatched my senior administrative assistant to meet with you. She is authorized to arrange terms for the purchase of the majority of your artwork for a mutually agreed upon sum I believe you will find most satisfactory. Miss Indah Pawironadi will confer with you at your earliest convenience to negotiate on my behalf. Be assured she has my full confidence.

I look forward to a most fruitful relationship.

The remarkable missive was signed with a looping script neither Mario or Estelle had ever seen before.

“What does it mean?” Estelle asked after Mario had he showed it to her.

His excitement was evident. “I hope it means that my ship has finally come in,” he told her gleefully.

Then the smile faded from his face, to be replaced by a puzzled expression. “Who is this Bokarnoputra guy anyway?” He hurried over to his computer and did a search. Google told him the name was Indonesian, but there were no matches.

“This better not be somebody’s idea of a joke,” he growled. He picked up the envelope and the FedEx mailer. “But if it is, it’s a pretty expensive one.”

“If this Miss Whatever-her-name-is actually shows up,” Estelle offered, “we’ll find out.”

They didn’t have long to wait. The next morning Mario received a call from the Indonesian businessman’s aide asking for an appointment. They settled on a time that afternoon, and when the hour arrived, Mario and Estelle were eagerly waiting at a window, watching to see who would arrive.

Promptly at the appointed time, a black Cadillac SUV pulled up to the curb and the uniformed driver hurried around to open the rear door. From behind the dark-tinted glass, out stepped a young woman who appeared to be East Asian in origin. Her black hair was swirled on top of her head and held in place by a black felt peci, or Sukarno hat. She was clad in an updated version of traditional Javanese clothing: a fitted jacket with a cutaway front over a long, patterned skirt that came down to her ankles. But the most striking thing about her was her face. She had high cheekbones and a clear, warm-brown complexion. “She looks like a model,” Estelle said in an awed tone.

The woman walked confidently toward the front door, and Mario opened it before she could knock. She stared at him and her hand shot to her mouth. “It’s you!” she said in a small voice. “It’s really you.”

Then she blushed. “Forgive me, Mr. Ignacio — I’ve forgotten my manners. It’s just that I’ve been a fan of your art for so long, and now to come face to face…”

When he invited her, she stepped into the studio and took a deep breath. “Allow me to begin again. I am Indah Pawironadi, the senior personal assistant to Bapak Asmuni Bokarnoputra. As you already know…” She glanced up at one of the prints on the wall and gasped. “Three Frogs at Play — that’s my personal favorite!” She hurried over to stare at the print raptly. After a long minute she seemed to recall where she was and turned to face the pair, who were watching her in bemusement. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “For me this is like walking into the Louvre and seeing the actual Mona Lisa.”

Mario made modest sounds, but there was no mistaking how flattered he was. “Please come sit down. We’re eager to hear about your employer’s proposal.” He turned to Estelle. “Why don’t you bring in some tea?”

Their visitor turned and extended her hand to Estelle. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

“I’m Estelle Graves,” she replied, shaking the long, delicate fingers. “I’m Mario’s, um, companion.” With that she went into the kitchen to get the tea they had made in advance.

When she returned, Estelle almost dropped the tea tray. The young woman was seated in an arm chair with her legs crossed, revealing a slit in her skirt that ran halfway up her thigh. Mario, Estelle saw, was staring quite openly at the display.

“Here you are, Miss, um, Pad-a-rada… I’m sorry, I don’t know how to pronounce your name.”

Mario shot her a hostile glance, though in truth he could not have pronounced the assistant’s name either. But the young women laughed melodically. “Please, just call me Indah. Our Javanese names can be quite the mouthful for Westerners.”

“But you certainly have no trouble with ours,” Mario exclaimed. “Your English is perfect — you sound like you’ve just flown in from London.”

Indah bowed her head modestly. “Actually, I was educated in a British public school before going to uni at Cambridge. After so many years, English is my first language.”

After chatting a while over tea, the young woman sat up straight and pulled her skirt to cover the leg that had been revealed. “If I may, I’d like to turn our conversation to the purpose of my visit. My employer, Bapak Bokarnoputra…” She paused. “In English you’d say ‘Mr.’ Bokarnoputra. That will be easier for all of us.

“In any case, Mr. Bokarnoputra has followed Mr. Ignacio’s work…”

“Please, call me Mario,” the artist interrupted.

Indah beamed and Estelle gritted her teeth.

“As I was saying, Mario, Mr. Bokarnoputra believes that the art world has reached a point where digital works such as yours deserve the same level of appreciation as older, traditional media. As you know, one of the barriers to such recognition has been the difficulty of valuation. Up to now, sales of digital art have been problematic due to their ease of reproduction. But with the introduction of NFTs, that problem has been solved, in rather spectacular fashion, I might add.”

“What’s an NFT?” Estelle interrupted.

“Forgive me for lapsing into jargon,” Indah apologized. “NFT stands for ‘Non-fungible Token.’ NFTs are elaborate encoded data tags that prove that digital files like one of Mario’s creations are unique. Using them, an artist can sell a work and the buyer can be certain he or she has the one and only original.”

“Do people really buy art that way?”

Indah smiled indulgently. “Oh, yes. Take Beeple, for example.”

“That sci-fi hack!” Mario spat.

“I quite agree,” Indah said, “but not long ago he managed to auction off an NFT version of 5,000 of his images for over $69 million!”

“Oh my God!” Estelle gasped. “Do you think Mario could do something like that?”

“That is exactly why I am here today. Mr. Bokarnoputra would like to acquire all of Mario’s works for a comparable price.”

The artist and his lover visibly stiffened, stunned at such an idea. Finally, Mario found his voice. “What do you mean by ‘a comparable price’?”

The young woman’s face grew serious. “Mr. Beeple’s auction price equated to approximately $13,800 per work. Mr. Bokarnoputra would like to exceed that by a small margin — let’s say an even $14,000 per work. He believes the higher price per work will attract great publicity and increase the value of his acquisitions.”

Mario’s head was swimming. “But I must have some 350 completed works. That would be…”

“Let’s round off and say $5 million in total,” Indah said calmly. “Does that sound fair to you, Mario?”

He and Estelle looked at each other. “Where do I sign?” he said.

She smiled demurely. “As you suggest, we will have to reduce our agreement to a contract, and there will be other procedures we’ll need to conduct first. But, assuming there are no unexpected delays, I believe it should be possible to finalize everything within a few days. That is Mr. Bokarnoputra’s desire.”

It was all Mario could do to restrain himself from whooping like a child on Christmas morning, but Estelle seemed a bit more restrained. “Excuse me, Indah, but can you tell us something about your employer? We’ve searched for him on the internet and found nothing.”

Mario shot Estelle a dirty look, but Indah was unfazed. “I’m delighted to hear that. It means that our efforts to keep Mr. Bokarnoputra out of the news and off the Internet have been successful.

“You see,” she went on, “Mr. Bokarnoputra is a multi-billionaire, one of the richest men in Indonesia. When he was a young boy, he had the misfortune of witnessing the murder of the parents of his closest friend. Thieves had heard tales of the family’s wealth and killed both the father and mother in the process of the robbery. From this terrible incident, Mr. Bokarnoputra learned the wisdom of avoiding publicity at all costs. He prefers to operate behind the scenes, as it were, hidden from the public eye.”

With that, she rose and bowed to the two of them. “I am delighted that you are in agreement with the terms my employer has proposed. I intend to report the success of our meeting to Mr. Bokarnoputra when I speak with him tonight. Hopefully, we will be able to make final arrangements tomorrow or the next day at the latest.”

When the car and driver had taken the young women away, Mario turned to Estelle in a fury. “What are you trying to do: ruin my chance for success? Why would you question Indah and her boss like that?”

The blonde woman crossed her arms and stood her ground. “It all sounds a little suspicious to me. A billionaire we’ve never heard of wants to buy your art work with NFTs or something like that, and he sends some mysterious floozy who flatters you and simpers over your art to make the deal. That sure raises questions in my mind.”

Mario cocked his head and looked carefully at her. “You’re jealous,” he declared. “You see any attractive woman as a threat.” He threw up his hands. “What did you want: for her to look like an old crone? Who cares how she looks if she can pay $5 million for my art?”

Estelle backed down. “It’s not that I’m jealous, honey, I just want good things for you and me. This all sounds too good to be true, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

He hid his frustration and took her in his arms. “Be positive, babe. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for us. We have to seize it while we can.”

 

******************

 

By the time our afternoon session had ended, Zahira and I had reluctantly agreed to Priya’s proposal. But we insisted that we pull the plug at the first sign of trouble. To keep an eye on the situation, we also insisted on setting up a command post where we’d be on call if help was needed. Both Zahira and I took several days off from work to be available. Zahira pointed out that it would be better to eliminate any chance of Estelle or Mario spotting me, so she and I took up a nervous watch at her home. There really wasn’t anything for us to do, but we both wanted to be on standby just in case.

Ever the engineer, Zahira drew up a Gantt chart of all the tasks needed for Operation DeepFake. For her part, Priya sketched out an outline of talking points, even jotting down specific lines and phrases so she could memorize them.

When everything was taped to the wall of Zahira’s den, I shook my head in disbelief. “You’d think we were planning the D-Day invasion,” I scoffed.

For the opening act, I was over at Zahira’s house before Priya and Mitch left for a last run-through. Once they were off, Zahira and I wandered into her kitchen to get another cup of coffee. While we drank, I looked at my friend and shook my head. “I hope you don’t mind my camping out over here. I know there isn’t much for me to do, but I’ve been so nervous I don’t think I could get any work done.”

“I know,” Zahira agreed. “I closed my office because I wouldn’t be able to do any work either.” She smiled shyly. “I’m glad you’re here — at least we can be nervous together.”

To get our minds off the drama, we began talking about college, first reminiscing about friends and acquaintances, then talking about our lives after graduation. “I thought everything was going well until Estelle hit me with her fake video,” I told her. “My life has been in an uproar ever since. About the only thing positive is that I got to reconnect with you.”

Zahira blushed and looked down modestly. Seeing her, I couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t met Estelle back then.

There was an awkward silence broken only when Zahira looked at her watch. “We ought to hear from Priya and Mitch pretty soon, at least based on the chart.”

I was jerked back into the present, and stood up to look at our wall of notes. “Honestly, I can’t believe I let Priya talk me into this crazy scheme. It all sounds so bizarre, and she’s right in the middle of everything while I’m sitting on the sidelines.” I shook my head. “I don’t understand why Priya would want to get involved in all this. She came here for a vacation with you, and the next thing you know she’s into some wild adventure for someone she’s never met before.”

Zahira rolled her eyes. “That’s Priya for you. She’s always been a total romantic, and she loves acting and the stage. I suspect this is far more fun for her than doing the tourist thing with me.” She waved her hand. “And don’t feel bad about getting talked into all this. When Priya sets her mind to something, she almost always manages to get her way. She’s not bossy or obstinate, it’s just that people find themselves doing what she wants. I remember back in school…”

Her recollection was cut short by the subject of her recollection breezing in through the front door with Mitch Fredericks right behind her. She didn’t seem affected at all by her encounter with Mario and Estelle.

“What happened, Priya? How did it go?” Zahira asked anxiously.

“Oh, fine,” the actress said airily, “just as I expected.” But she could not prevent a satisfied smile from revealing her true emotions. “Actually, I’d say the first act went off without a hitch.” She winked. “But just wait: the next act will be a real show-stopper.”

 

******************

 

Shortly after Estelle left for work the next day, “Indah” called Mario. “What did Mr. Bokarnoputra have to say?” he asked eagerly once he’d returned her greetings.

“Sadly, he was unavailable to take my call,” she told him. “And since we’re thirteen hours behind Jakarta, I won’t have another chance to speak with him until this evening.”

“I see,” Mario said, trying to hide the disappointment in his voice, “that’s too bad.”

“But I expect to get confirmation from him tonight. Then we can meet tomorrow to finalize our plans.”

“So I guess that’s all we can do until then.”

The tone of her voice grew almost shy. “Actually, I’m calling because I have a personal request, Mario. If it’s not too great an inconvenience, would it be possible for me to come over and see more of your works today? I am such a great admirer of your art; it would be a special treat for me.”

“Of course,” he replied heartily. “In fact why don’t you come over now? Then we can go to the park and have lunch afterwards. That will give us a chance to get to know each other better.”

“An outing in the park — I’d love that,” Indah said eagerly. “Will Estelle be joining us?”

“No, she’s at work.”

“Good… I mean, it’s too bad she’s not available as well.”

When Indah arrived at Mario’s studio later that morning, she came in wearing a light-weight wrap to protect her from the cool morning air. But when she removed the wrap inside, it was all Mario could do not to gawk. She was dressed all in white athletic wear from neck to ankle. The stretchy work-out costume revealed every contour of her body, and Mario could spot no sign of any kind of undergarment.

“I hope this is okay,” the woman said, gesturing at herself. “My work-out togs are the only casual clothing I packed, and I fear my business clothing wouldn’t be suitable for the park.”

“No, you’re fine, perfectly fine.”

Trying not to stare at her, he showed Indah the rest of the prints he had hanging about the house. Then he took her to the computer monitor to look at some of his newer creations. As she began her delighted exploration, he leaned over her shoulder, taking the opportunity to stare at her curves. As he did so, he found himself enchanted by the exotic perfume she wore.

When she reached the end of his collection, she thanked him profusely for the “tour.”

“It’s almost noon,” he responded. “Why don’t we go out and get some lunch?”

She eagerly agreed, seeming almost overwhelmed at the chance to dine with her idol. He had already picked up food and a bottle of white wine from a trendy eatery in the area. They stepped outside, and when he tried to apologize for his rundown vehicle, she wouldn’t hear it. “This is merely proof of how blind the art world has been to your talent. But don’t worry: all that will soon change after they learn of your sale. In any case, my driver can take us wherever you direct.”

After arriving at the park, the pair strolled for twenty minutes or so before stopping under the shade of a large oak tree bordering a meadow. He unfolded a blanket and the two shared a delightful al fresco meal in the shade. After finishing both the food and wine, they walked along one of the trails, enjoying the afternoon sun. At one point the young woman bent over to admire some wildflowers, and her companion tried not to gasp at the sight of her delightfully curved bottom.

When they came to a small lake, they stopped on the shore to admire the view. As he looked out over the water, Mario was startled to hear his companion sniffle. Turning to look at her, he saw tears in her eyes. “What is it, Indah?” he inquired anxiously.

“It’s nothing — I’m just acting like a foolish girl.” She looked up at him and the tears flowed even faster. She leaned against him and he automatically put his arms around her to comfort her.

After dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, she gazed at him again. “It’s just that it’s so beautiful here and you’ve been so kind to me and… and after the sale is completed, Mr. Bokarnoputra has ordered me to return to Jakarta.” She gave him a pitiful look. “I really don’t want to go back there.”

“You shouldn’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

“But I would lose my job; I’d have no place to go.”

He paused for a short moment. “I could help you. You could stay with me.”

“Oh, Mario!” she gasped, and pulled him to her tightly. He relished the feeling of her body molding to his until she pulled back slightly. “But what about Estelle? Aren’t you two…?”

He shook his head almost viciously. “That relationship is ending.”

“But I don’t want to be the one to…”

He pressed his finger to her lips. “It would have ended regardless. You have nothing to feel bad about.”

She put her head on his chest and clasped him even more tightly.

In the distance a church bell began to chime, and Indah pulled back in surprise. “I did not realize so much time had gone by. We have to get back — my driver may come looking for me soon.”

“Why would he be spying on you?”

A frown crossed her features. “I dare not have him report anything inappropriate to my employer. If he does so, Mr. Bokarnoputra might order me home immediately and cancel our arrangements.” She shook her head sadly. “He is a very possessive man.”

Quickly the two turned and hurried back, walking hand in hand until they came in sight of her car. On the drive back to the studio, they kept exchanging glances, and he marveled at her exotic beauty.

She reached over surreptitiously and pressed her hand to his thigh. “Assuming I hear from Mr. Bokarnoputra tonight, I should be able to bring the details of the sale to you tomorrow morning.” She lowered her voice. “Then perhaps you and I can make some plans of our own…”

“Plans and more,” he nodded, and her grip on his thigh tightened.

 

******************

 

Once again I spent the day at Zahira’s house. I knew — or at least hoped — that there would be nothing for us to do, but as the poet said, “they also serve who only stand and wait.” Nevertheless, it helped to be able to talk to someone about what we were doing, and Zahira seemed equally glad to do the same with me. It was certainly better than worrying all alone.

It was late in the afternoon when Priya and her chauffeur Mitch finally returned. Her account of the day’s activity provoked a mix of optimism and apprehension. “It sounds like your seduction of Mario went well,” Zahira observed, “but is it wise for you to be alone with that man? If anything goes wrong or he becomes suspicious, he might respond violently.”

“You’re always too cautious, Sister. Sometimes you just have to screw your courage to the sticking point.”

“Maybe so,” Zahira responded, “but sometimes discretion is the better part of valor.”

“All Shakespeare aside,” I interjected, “you need to be cautious, Priya. If you get the sense he’s on to you, you need to bail out in a hurry. Just remember that this guy had no compunction about destroying my life. I don’t want to think what he might do to you if he thought you’d betrayed him.”

“How sweet!” Priya laughed. “My sister and my new friend are ready to jump on their chargers to ride in to save me.” Then she grew serious. “I know what I’m doing and I won’t take any unnecessary chances, I promise. And remember,” she added, gesturing at Mitch, “I have my personal bodyguard at hand if need be.”

Mitch bowed dramatically, and we all laughed, but two of us did so less than wholeheartedly.

 

******************

 

When Estelle got home from work, she walked into the studio and stopped cold. “What is that smell in the air? Has that woman been here?”

Mario was startled but recovered quickly. “Yes, Indah came over to update us on the sale.”

“How convenient for her to arrive while I was at work,” Estelle sniffed. “Well, what did she say?”

“Unfortunately, she was unable to speak with her boss last night. But she told me she felt certain she’d reach him tonight, and she expects to bring the whole package over tomorrow.”

“Well, I want to be here when she comes.”

“But you’ll be at work, won’t you?”

“This is much more important. I’m going to call in sick.” She stared at Mario. “Is that a problem?”

He clenched his teeth but shook his head in the negative. “Why would it be?”

After a frosty evening, both of them jumped when Mario’s phone rang the next morning. It was Indah announcing she was on the way over with big news.

When she arrived, dressed once again in her traditional garb, she was surprised to find Estelle there. After a furtive glance at Mario, she plunged ahead with her news. “I spoke with Mr. Bokarnoputra last night, and he confirmed that the price we’ve discussed is suitable. He will be paying you $5 million dollars in bitcoins as soon as the sale is complete.”

“Bitcoins? Why bitcoins?” Estelle burst out.

“Because bitcoins are anonymous,” Indah explained. “No one can trace them; they don’t appear in any bank account that your government can monitor.” She smiled. “As I’ve told you, Mr. Bokarnoputra wishes to maintain his anonymity above all else.

“But that’s not all. My employer has made arrangements with the Mermelstein Art Gallery in New York City for a one-man-show of Mario’s works. On the opening night, it will be announced that an anonymous patron has purchased the entire collection.” She beamed at them. “Can’t you imagine it: the cachet of a one-man-show at Mermelstein’s topped only by the excitement caused by news of the purchase? It will be a sensation, and the value of Mario’s art will skyrocket!”

Mario looked ready to burst with excitement, but Estelle was wary. “Why go to all that trouble? Why can’t your boss just make the purchase and announce it?”

Indah answered as though Estelle was a schoolgirl. “Don’t you see: this is a huge win for Mario and for my employer. The publicity will guarantee news coverage around the world. Mr. Bokarnoputra’s investment will soar in value.” Then she pointed in Mario’s direction. “And the next art that Mario creates will be even more valuable. It’s a brilliant strategy — both parties win.”

“So why do I get the impression that there’s a catch?” Estelle asked skeptically. Mario shot her an angry look, but before he could speak, Indah cleared her throat.

“There is no catch,” she said, “but Mermelstein does have special requirements for exhibitions of digital art. They require an advance deposit equal to one percent of the estimated value of the works. The deposit is completely refundable, of course, once the NFTs for the works are validated.”

Now it was Mario’s turn to look confused. “You’re talking about $50,000. Why so much and why do we have to do that in the first place?”

“It’s standard practice with non-tangible collections,” Indah explained patiently. “For digital art, the only way the gallery knows they have originals is the non-fungible token — the NFT. The deposit is to ensure the gallery against an unscrupulous artist who might ‘forget’ to supply them with the original, one-of-a-kind art.” She smiled. “It’s just makes good sense: think of it like the earnest money you put down when you make a bid on a house.”

“Why do we have to pay that?” Estelle wanted to know. “Your boss is rich and he’s going to buy the works anyway. Can’t he put up the deposit?”

Indah blinked hard to avoid rolling her eyes. “Anonymity, Estelle, anonymity. Besides, if the funds come from Mario, it will help increase his credibility in the art world.”

“And this is standard practice?” Mario asked.

“Absolutely!”

“Then we’ll do it,” he said with finality. Turning to Estelle he snapped, “You told me you got that much from your share of your ex-husband’s house. We’ll use that.”

“That’s my money!” she burst out.

Mario turned to Indah. “Will you excuse us for a second?” When she nodded, he took Estelle by the arm and forcefully led her back to the bedroom.

“Why are you trying to block me from being successful?” he snarled when he’d closed the door. “We’re about to make $5 million — $50 thousand is nothing.”

“I know,” Estelle conceded, “it’s just that I don’t trust that woman.”

He started to explode and then caught himself. He walked over and embraced her, kissing the top of her head. “Babe, babe, don’t be jealous. The minute this deal is completed, that woman is going to fly off to the other side of the world and we’ll never see her again. In the meantime, you and I are going to find a beautiful beach where we can get married and live like the millionaires we’ll be. Don’t throw that all away.”

She looked up at him. “Marriage? You really mean it?”

“Absolutely, babe.”

She hugged him tightly. “Okay, let’s do it.”

When they returned, their smiles told Indah the answer without her having to ask the question. “There’s just one more detail,” she told them. “We have to arrange for a wire transfer of the funds to Mermelstein’s account.”

“I don’t have any idea how to do that,” Estelle blurted out.

“Oh, I handle wire transfers all the time,” Indah shrugged. “I’ll be glad to do that for you. But that means we’ll have to get the funds in cash.”

“Cash?” Estelle gasped.

“Of course,” Indah nodded. “If you write them a check, it will take several days for the check to clear, which means delaying the whole process. But if I can get the funds to the transfer agent in cash this afternoon, Mermelstein will have them first thing tomorrow. And when they’ve received the funds, they’ll issue you a receipt by email. Then, as soon as Mario has transferred the NFTs to them, you’ll be able to use the receipt to redeem your deposit.”

“But…” Estelle began, but Mario cut her off. “Come on, Estelle, we’ve already gone over this. Look, there’s a branch of your bank nearby, isn’t there? You can run over there and get the money right now, can’t you babe?”

She realized she’d been outmaneuvered. “Alright, I’ll go.”

As soon as Estelle had pulled out of the driveway, Indah stepped to Mario’s side. “All last night, I… I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

He took her hands in his own. “I know, Indah, it’s been the same for me. I want to be with you — alone with you.”

She freed her hands and threw her arms around him, molding her body to his and kissing him with a fiery passion. He crushed her to him and returned her kisses almost desperately.

Finally she pulled back, panting to catch her breath. Gazing up at him with an expression of fiery desire, she asked, “How long will she” — she gestured with a nod — “be gone?”

“I don’t know how long it will take her to get the funds, but the bank branch isn’t that far.” He shook his head in frustration. “We can’t risk being caught. She’s already jealous. If she sees anything to make her suspect us, she could refuse to hand over the money.”

Indah pulled away and went to the window to peer out. “That must not happen. If anything goes wrong, my employer will order me home immediately and I’ll never see you again.” The fear on her face was obvious.

He thought quickly. “Estelle told me she’s going to her sister’s house tonight after dinner to celebrate her niece’s birthday. Maybe I could come to the Ritz-Carlton while she’s over there,” he said hopefully.

A frown crossed Indah’s pretty face. “We may not have much time together. Mr. Bokarnoputra will call the phone in my room precisely at 9:00 p.m. our time for a status report. I cannot miss that call.”

He drew her back into his embrace. “I’ll take even a minute just to be alone with you.”

She pressed against him again, then abruptly pulled away. “I thought I heard a car in the driveway. Quick, sit over there.”

When Estelle came in, lugging a hefty valise with her, she found the pair seated on opposite sides of the living room. It was clear that she was not happy. “Who knew money weighed so much!” she exclaimed as she let the bag clump to the floor. Then she surveyed Mario and Indah. “What have you two been doing while I was gone?”

Mario leaned back and gestured toward the woman. “Indah was just outlining the next steps in the process. Indah, would you mind going over them again for Estelle?”

“Of course,” Indah said, secretly impressed by Mario’s quick improvisation. “We were speaking of the exhibition. You and Mario will, of course, be the guests of honor, so you’ll need to make arrangements to travel to New York as soon as the date of the opening night is confirmed.” She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “And don’t be concerned about plane tickets or hotel reservations — Mermelstein always covers those for its featured artists.” Then she smiled conspiratorially at Estelle. “But you may want to get Mario to underwrite a little shopping expedition before you leave. You know how those New York fashionistas are.”

Suddenly she sat bolt upright. “Oh my goodness, I’m about to forget the most important thing I learned last night. You won’t have to wait till the showing to receive your funds. Mr. Bokarnoputra informed me that he plans to make the actual purchase of the artwork tomorrow, Jakarta time. The $5 million in bitcoins will be conveyed to you just as soon as Mermelstein’s has confirmed receipt of the NFTs. That means the day after tomorrow you two will be millionaires!”

She beamed as the two of them hugged one another in celebration. “I’m so happy for the two of you. Mario will finally reap the reward for his artistic genius, and his reputation will be secured with the one-man show and the announcement of the sale.”