Featured Review on this writing by hullabaloo22

The fake revenge of Joséphine Lefebvre

Reads: 183  | Likes: 2  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 2

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a story about two people pretending to have sex with the people they actually have sex with.

Submitted: January 28, 2019

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 28, 2019



Gérard Lefebvre looked at his phone. He had ten minutes before his next client, the wife of a wealthy city lawyer, and he was whiling away the time viewing his gallery, scrutinising photographs of his wife.

He flicked through the pictures of Joséphine. This was the 'wallpaper' folder, images which randomly flicked onto his home screen. He lingered on the current one.

It had been taken perhaps fifteen years ago, when they were camping at Les Sables d'Or. He would never forget the moment. A hot afternoon, they had just erected the tent and inflated the airbed. An uncontrollable lust had overcome them both. Tearing off their few clothes, they had made love happily and violently on the rolling, bouncing mattress. Finally, sated and breathless, he had rolled off her, she had dragged her skirt across her thighs for modesty's sake, and he had captured her glow in an intimate shot.

He suppressed small stirrings of arousal and swiped through the rest. They were far more conventional - nostalgic portraits for sure, but not very racy.

Joséphine was not really up for sexy shots.


After forty five minutes of engagement with the superficial anxieties of the well-to-do, Gérard walked across to his window, which featured a distant and partially blocked view of the prosperous Île de la Cité. His thoughts drifted back to his phone.

He stared at the screen. Behind the icons a perfectly pleasant picture of his wife stared back at him. It was not enough. Gérard was a respectable and honest man, a good husband and a hard worker (psychotherapy is such demanding work, he reminded himself). He would never be unfaithful or even look at porn. But .. there had to be a way through his difficulties here.

He had previously - for research purposes only - conducted image searches using terms such as 'little black dress’. Some of the pictures were indeed .. striking. If only his wife would pose like that. But maybe there was a way .. a thought had come to mind.

Gérard searched for reviews of face-switching apps. There were many. He used his lunchtime to download a few and experiment. There was one which allowed him to crop his wife's head and graft it onto a barely-clad model. The result was good. It looked real. He imagined even his wife would scratch her head and try to recall when it had been taken (if he was ever unfortunate enough that she should see it).

The doctored picture was added to his wallpaper folder. To Gérard's delight, it soon appeared on his screen. Wow!

Later that evening, Gérard and Joséphine were sat companionably in their modest apartment, unfashionable close to le Périphérique. They were both from modest, provincial backgrounds and although Gérard ministered to the rich and famous, they could not themselves aspire to such gilded society. This rankled more with his wife than with Gérard himself.

They sat at opposite ends of their comfy but sagging couch. She was reading something on her iPad, he was reading Libération on his phone. An amusing article about the latest riots in central Paris caught his eye and, without thinking, he handed the device to his wife, “Look what that idiot Mélenchon had to say!”

He silently cursed himself. Who knew what picture lay behind the app? Suppose she pressed the wrong button? Of course she did.

“Oh, is that a picture of me? Where was that taken?”

Her tone seemed calm, even pleased. He breathed again and leaned across.

“Ah, I think we were in Montpellier that summer?”

She handed the phone back with a small moue of pleasure and continued her reading.

After that narrow escape you might have thought Gérard would have learned the error of his ways. But no. In the intervals between consultations, Gérard probed further into the potential of his phone. There was a thing called 'active wallpaper' - videos that would run as screen background. To tell the truth, his collection of synthesised erotic images had begun to pall.

Gérard had absolutely no intention of running porn videos on his phone. That would be unthinkable, utterly disloyal to his wife. But he had heard of a website called Deep-Fake. Apparently Joséphine and himself could star in exciting encounters that he knew, in reality, Joséphine would never, ever agree to.

He had once - furtively - watched the film Intimacy. Mark Rylance meets Kerry Fox for no-strings sex in some rundown apartment. He recalled the scene where Rylance, naked, sits opposite Fox while she undresses, all except for her skirt. Their encounter starts with her straddling him but soon she is on her back on the thin industrial carpet. She loses the skirt, her legs enfold him. There is a great deal of panting.

The clip is easily accessible on the Internet - he enters the link into Deep-Fake - while relevant pictures of his wife and himself take only a further moment to upload. The process - something to do with 'tensor-flow’ - is an overnight run .. but that's OK. Gérard is amazed by the results: Joséphine and Gérard make passionate love on a thin rug in the shadows - with high production values. His phone wallpaper is operating at a whole new level.

Joséphine is late to all this but she does eventually get there. One leisurely evening, a few days later, Gérard has to visit the toilet. He leaves his phone on the coffee table running the Libération app. But, as everyone knows, phones have minds of their own. The app spontaneously closes and the active wallpaper kicks in. Alerted by the movement, Joséphine leans across to take a look, is transfixed by a movie rendition of herself and her husband, passionately making out on a mat.

She has no memory of this. She doesn't think she has ever had sex on the floor. Her mind whirls furiously. She doesn't know how this was done but she thinks she knows the score. Her husband has concocted this .. thing, and has been showing it to his friends. She has exactly one thought.



Joséphine is connected. As the wife of an up-and-coming analyst she has entrée to the society of elite women, albeit with very junior status. She knows the right people, she even has confidantes.

This is Paris. Joséphine's issues seem very small in the larger scheme of things. Some respond to her fury with amusement: ‘He's a man! And this is all of your problem?’ But her intense desire for revenge does pique interest. Someone knows someone, and Joséphine finds herself one afternoon in the foyer of a very elegant establishment on the left-bank. The immaculately dressed young woman who greets her seems to know everything.

“Perhaps we should enact our own version of your husband's fantasies? We do have some young men here who are .. extremely attractive.”

Joséphine balks; counter-proposes.

“He should wear a mask of my husband. I am not a wanton wife. And I'm doing nothing that's real. This is only about appearances. He is to be punished - but I'm certainly not going to divorce him.”

The woman raises her eyebrows, reassures her.

“Your request, madame, is not so unusual. Trust us, we've done this many times. You will be impressed when you see the recording.”

“I want him unsettled and deterred, that's all.”

Joséphine is treated to the full feel-good treatment. Styling of the hair, scented bath, expensive perfume, subtle makeup, the sexiest nightwear. She's led to a room bare save for a very large bed set against the wall. The décor is classic and restrained: sumptuous carpets over chequerboard tiles, a glittering high-ceiling chandelier, formal windows overlooking the Seine. Screens on either side of the bed obscure the cameras.

Joséphine lies out seductively, stretching like a cat, flexing her knees. She takes her time, relaxes. After a short while, a handsome young man, masked like in the film Eyes Wide Shut enters from the left.

“Gérard,” she breathes, voice husky, “make love to me like this was our very first time.”

The young man is astonishingly athletic and energetic. Joséphine throws herself into the performance, learning exactly how they do erotic scenes in the movies. After only eleven or twelve takes it's in the can.

A flushed and excited Joséphine showers, dresses and is offered coffee in the viewing room. The post-production team have surpassed themselves. The mask has vanished, their super-powerful AI has truly transformed the actor into a younger and far more vigorous version of her husband. Their simulated coupling looks far more real than many of her actual nights of passion.

“What do you think, madame?”

Joséphine is more than delighted. This is exactly what she wanted. But she's hazier about what's to happen next. It doesn't help that she's largely ignorant about the technology.

“We suggest something discreet with YouTube, madame. We can subtly bring it to his attention and you will be able to enjoy his confusion and horror.”

Joséphine enthusiastically agrees, and departs, ready to enjoy the progress of her retribution.

Was it deliberate or was it one of those things? The video goes up on YouTube with full public access - its fake nature somehow omitted. Somehow her Parisian friends get to hear about it. It becomes a minor sensation for a week or two.


Joséphine and Gérard must have been aghast, mortified, horrified. Probably they went through all those Kübler-Ross stages. But the real after-effect was on their social status. This is Paris - they had been original!

Gérard Lefebvre's practice had never been more in demand, his fees shot up. Mme Lefebvre - so enticing, so scandalous! - found herself centre of the social stage. Church mouse no longer!

Gérard did not of course put his wife’s self-produced video on his phone. Instead, as a good Jungian, he took stock. His wife had demonstrated admirable type development. The animus from her deep subconscious had been unleashed - Joséphine had a new, uninhibited sexual swagger. Not a problem, an opportunity!

Soon Joséphine had a new appointment at that exclusive and so-discreet left-bank salon. And on her arm, accompanying her, was her excited husband!

© Copyright 2019 AdamCarlton. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:






More Romance Short Stories