Chapter 3: Revenge Fuck Round Two
The tender ritual ended not with a climax, but with a saturated quiet. Julia released Chernoy with a soft, final kiss to his hip bone. She sat back on her heels, wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb. Her knees ached from the hard floor. Her entire body hummed with a profound, satiated stillness. Across the room, Olga did the same, rising unsteadily to her feet with a soft groan, a wry smile playing on her swollen lips.
Chernoy looked down at himself, then at Julia. His expression was unreadable, a mix of awe and blunt assessment. Demid just shook his head, a low chuckle escaping him. "Fucking unreal."
The spell of the quiet was broken by the grating shrill of a whistle from somewhere outside, followed by the distant, synchronized thunder of boots on concrete. Reality, in the form of the base’s rigid timetable, shouldered its way back into the room.
"They’ll be moving between blocks," Chernoy said, his voice back to its functional growl. He stood, tucking himself away and fastening his uniform with swift, economical movements. "You need to be gone before the next shift change. Demid. The hose."
Demid nodded, also dressing. "Right. I’ll get the part from stores. Meet you at the car in ten." He gave Olga a long, appraising look that was no longer purely lustful; it held a sliver of something like respect. "You sure you can walk?"
Olga arched a brow, though she leaned against the footlocker for support. "I’ll manage. Just fix the damn car."
The two soldiers left, the door clicking shut behind them. The sudden silence was immense. Julia got to her feet, her muscles protesting. She found her top, pulled it over her head. The fabric felt alien against her skin, which still buzzed with the memory of calloused hands and rough wool. She and Olga dressed in silence, the rustle of clothing loud in the empty room. They didn’t look at each other. There was too much to see, too much that couldn’t be spoken.
Finally, Olga straightened her hair in the dull reflection of a windowpane. "Well," she said, her voice strangely small. "That was…"
"Utterly depraved," Julia finished, her own voice steady. "And necessary."
Olga turned, her eyes meeting Julia’s. The playful mask was gone, replaced by a naked vulnerability. "Do you feel… different?"
Julia considered. The ghost of her husband’s timid, apologetic touch flitted through her mind, a pale echo against the visceral bruising she now carried on her hips, the tender ache deep inside. "I feel real," she said finally. "For the first time in years, I feel absolutely, terrifyingly real."
A genuine smile, tired and deep, broke across Olga’s face. "Yes. That’s it exactly."
They left the room, stepping back into the sterile, echoing hallway. The transition was jarring. From the fever-dream warmth of the barracks room to the institutional chill of the corridor. They walked slowly, their steps uneven. The physical evidence of what they’d done was a secret they carried between their legs, a sticky, tender reminder with every step.
They found Makarov exactly where they’d left him, a nervous silhouette beside the sleek, disabled car. He looked like he’d aged a year. His eyes widened as they approached, flitting over their disheveled hair, their softened posture, the subtle, unmistakable bloom of a bruise on Olga’s neck.
"Everything… in order?" he stammered, avoiding direct eye contact.
"The car is being repaired," Julia said, her prosecutor’s tone effortlessly sliding back into place, though it felt like a costume now. "We waited in the lounge as you suggested." The lie was cool, clean, effortless.
Makarov swallowed, nodding rapidly. "Good. Good. Demid is… capable."
A few minutes later, Chernoy and Demid appeared from around the corner of a repair shed. Demid carried a new section of radiator hose and a toolbox. His eyes, when they met Olga’s, held a secret, knowing glow. Chernoy’s gaze was harder, more analytical as it swept over Julia, cataloging the re-assembled professional and seeing right through to the well-fucked woman beneath.
No one spoke as Demid set to work. The snick of tools, the gush of coolant being drained into a pan, the tightening of clamps—these were the only sounds. Makarov fidgeted. Chernoy lit another cigarette, leaning against the hood of a nearby jeep, watching the women with detached intensity. Julia felt his eyes on her like a physical touch. She leaned against the side of her car, the sun warm on her face, and let the memories wash over her: the brutal fullness, the filthy praise, the shocking, gushing release she’d never experienced with Igor. A slow, deep heat began to coil in her belly again, unrelated to the sunlight.
Demid worked with brisk efficiency. "Done," he announced, wiping his hands on a rag. "Give it a minute for the sealant to set, then you can go. Don’t over-rev it for the first fifty kilometers."
"Thank you," Olga said, her voice sweet and hollow, the perfect grateful wife. She opened her purse, pulling out a thick envelope of cash. "For your trouble."
Chernoy took it, not even glancing inside, and shoved it into his pocket. "Your trouble is over. Ours is just beginning." He jerked his chin toward the main gate. "Time for you to leave."
It was a dismissal, final and cold. The fantasy was officially concluded. The transaction was complete. They were to get in their car and drive back to their gilded cages. Julia felt a sharp, unexpected pang of loss. It was absurd. This was what they’d agreed to. Yet, the thought of returning to Igor’s polite, passionless world, having now known this, felt like a sentence.
Olga slid into the driver’s seat. Julia moved to the passenger side. Her hand was on the door handle when Chernoy spoke again, his voice so low only she could hear.
"Prosecutor."
She turned. He was close, the scent of him—smoke, sweat, sex—wrapping around her. He didn’t touch her. "That thing you did at the end," he said, his eyes digging into hers. "That wasn't part of the deal. That was a gift."
Julia held his gaze, her heart hammering against her ribs. "It was an observation."
A flicker of something dark and amused crossed his face. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Then he stepped back. "Drive safely."
Julia got in the car. The door closed with a solid, expensive thud, sealing them in a bubble of leather-scented normalcy. Olga started the engine. It purred to life, healthy and strong. She put the car in gear and they began rolling slowly down the gravel path toward the distant gates.
Neither woman spoke for a full minute. The base unfolded around them—squads of men drilling, trucks rumbling past, a world of rigid order and latent violence.
Olga was the first to break. A shaky exhale. Then a giggle. Then full, uncontrollable laughter, tears streaming from her eyes. "Oh my god. Julia. Oh my god."
Julia felt her own laughter bubble up, a release of unbearable tension. They laughed until their sides hurt, until the hysteria subsided into shaky, breathless silence.
"We're terrible people," Olga whispered, but her voice was alive with joy.
“We’re terrible people,” Olga whispered, but her voice was alive with joy.
Julia watched the high fences of the base recede in the side mirror, Chernoy’s silhouette already vanished into the gloom of a repair bay. “We’re awake,” she corrected softly, the word feeling infinitely more accurate. They drove in a saturated silence for twenty minutes, the purr of the engine the only sound, each woman alone with the echoes of sensation still vibrating in her marrow.
“What now?” Olga finally asked, her fingers tight on the steering wheel. “Do we just… go home? Make dinner?”
The thought was laughable, horrifying. Julia saw her kitchen, her husband’s kind, distant smile, the sterile touch that now felt like a doctor’s examination. A chasm had opened inside her, one that domestic routine could never fill. “No,” Julia said, the decision solidifying as she spoke. “Not yet. I can’t sit in that silence yet.”
“So where, then? A bar? We look… well, we look like we’ve been thoroughly reviewed.” Olga giggled, a nervous, breathy sound.
An idea, reckless and perfect, formed in Julia’s mind. “The university. The law faculty annex. My old mentor, Vasiliev, asked me weeks ago to review a postgraduate thesis. I keep… kept putting it off.” She turned in her seat, the leather creaking. “We can walk through the main concourse. We can be around people who aren’t soldiers. We can just… feel normal, but feel ourselves feeling it.”
Olga’s smile was instant, understanding flashing in her eyes. “A test drive.”
“Exactly.”
Olga swung the car toward the city’s academic quarter. They stopped at a boutique near the university gates. With the unspoken coordination of conspirators, they bought new things: a simple, sleeveless charcoal dress for Julia that clung to her waist and flared over her hips, and a pale silk blouse and tight cream trousers for Olga. They changed in the pristine marble bathroom, folding their old clothes away like shed skins. They fixed their hair, reapplied makeup not to cover, but to accentuate. They examined each other.
The women who looked back from the mirror were not the ones who had entered the barracks. Their beauty was the same, but the source had shifted. It no longer came from careful construction, but from a deep, radiating knowledge that hummed just beneath the skin. Their eyes were brighter, their posture looser, yet somehow more commanding. They carried the secret of their own capacity, a switch that had been flipped and could not be un-switched.
They walked out into the late afternoon sun, the autumn light gliding the old university buildings. The main facility was a sprawling series of interconnected glass and stone structures, buzzing with the energy of students released from lectures. The air smelled of fallen leaves, coffee, and ambition.
They entered the wide glass doors of the main concourse, a cathedral of modern academia. The space exploded with sound—the roar of hundreds of conversations, the clatter of bags, laughter echoing off high ceilings. And within three steps, the current of the room shifted around them.
A pair of young men in track jackets, leaning against a pillar, fell silent mid-sentence. Their eyes tracked, mouths slightly agape, as Julia and Olga passed. One elbowed the other, a slow, deliberate nudge.
A low wolf whistle sliced through the ambient noise from somewhere up on a mezzanine. It wasn’t the crude, aggressive catcall of the streets; it was appreciative, stunned, almost involuntary. Julia didn’t look up. A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. She felt the sound like a physical touch, a validation of the heat still simmering in her core.
“Incoming, three o’clock,” Olga murmured, her voice light.
A group of older postgraduate students, men in their late twenties with the harried look of doctoral candidates, were clustered around a table overflowing with papers. Their debate died. Heads turned in unison. One, with tousled hair and glasses, completely lost his train of thought, his pen hovering over a dense page of notes. His gaze was frank, hungry, traveling the length of Olga’s body in her tight trousers with academic intensity.
“Keep walking,” Julia said, her own voice low and steady. She could feel dozens of eyes now, a palpable weight. It was a different texture than the soldiers’ stares. These were looks of shock, of desire laced with intellectual curiosity, of pure, unguarded lust from boys who thought themselves men.
A broad-shouldered young man who looked like a rower, his backpack slung over one shoulder, deliberately changed his course to intersect their path. “Pardon me,” he said, his voice deeper than expected, his eyes locked on Julia’s. “I’m hopelessly lost. The, uh, the Philology department?”
Julia stopped. She met his gaze, holding it for a beat longer than necessary, watching a flush creep up his neck. She could smell his cheap detergent and nervous sweat. “Second building east,” she said, her tone cool, informative. “Up the limestone stairs. You can’t miss it.”
He blinked, swallowed. “Thank you. Really. Thanks.” He stood frozen for a second, then stumbled off in the wrong direction before correcting himself.
Olga let out a silvery laugh. “He’ll be dreaming of limestone stairs for a week.”
They moved through the facility like a wake through water. Conversations hushed, then resumed in excited, gossipy pulses behind them. In the reflection of a glass display case, Julia saw two janitors pause their mopping to watch them pass, one muttering something that made the other grin and shake his head.
At a coffee kiosk, the balding, aproned barista fumbled a cup. “Sorry! So sorry!” he stammered, not looking at the mess but at the plunging neckline of Olga’s blouse as she ordered a double espresso. His hands shook as he handed her the drink.
“My treat,” said a new voice, smooth and confident. A man in a beautifully tailored professor’s jacket, maybe forty-five, with sharp blue eyes, slid his card across the counter before Julia could pay. “It’s not every day the scenery here improves so dramatically.” His smile was practiced, inviting, full of assumed privilege.
Julia took her coffee, letting her fingers brush his. “That’s very generous. But we wouldn’t want to keep you from your lectures.” Her dismissal was polite, but a man see an opening.
Her dismissal was polite, but a man of his acumen only sees an opening. He withdrew the card smoothly. "Lectures are over for the day. The real education often happens in the corridors. Professor Lev Mishin, Cultural Anthropology." He extended his hand. His grip was firm, dry, and lingered a fraction too long on Julia's. His attention shifted to Olga. "And you are the fortunate friend."
"This is Olga," Julia said, a trace of her courtroom steel in her voice, but a new warmth beneath it. She understood his type instantly. He was not a blunt instrument like Chernoy; he was a precision scalpel, confident he could dissect desire with a clever quip. The contrast was invigorating.
"Charmed," Lev said, his eyes missing nothing: the expensive watch on Olga's wrist, the subtle challenge in Julia's posture. "You're not students. Not staff. Visiting dignitaries from the real world, perhaps?"
"We're lost," Olga offered, her voice a playful lilt. She took a sip of her espresso. "Just admiring the architecture."
"The architecture is staring back, I assure you." This voice came from behind Lev. Another man approached, younger than Lev, perhaps late-thirties, with tousled dark hair and the distracted, intense air of a scientist. He carried a battered leather satchel. "Forgive the interruption. I was witnessing a masterclass, Lev, and couldn't resist." He smiled at the women, a genuine, curious expression. "Professor Andrei Volkov. Theoretical Physics. When Lev here starts quoting ethnographic theory, it's usually a prelude to something more... empirically engaging."
Lev sighed, feigning exasperation. "Andrei believes everything, including human interaction, can be reduced to a series of measurable forces."
"It can," Andrei said, his gaze now calmly, analytically sweeping over Julia and Olga. He wasn't leering like the students. He was studying them, appreciating the variables. "Kinetic energy. Potential energy. The charge in a room certainly shifted when you entered. Measurably."
Olga laughed, a real, delighted sound."A physicist. I haven't been an experiment since university."
"You are a discovery," Andrei corrected gently. His eyes held hers. "A previously unobserved phenomenon."
The exchange was a rapid, verbal dance. Lev, the anthropologist, painted with charm and broad strokes. Andrei, the physicist, probed with pinpoint focus. They operated as a team, a pair of intellectual predators who had clearly perfected this routine. The tired flirtations of the young students evaporated; this was a different league entirely.
"An observation requires further data," Lev said, steering them subtly away from the kiosk, a hand hovering near Julia's back without quite touching her. "You mentioned being lost. May we offer a guide's service? The coffee here is swill. I have a private carafe of proper Ethiopian blend in my office. Fourth floor. Views of the river."
It was not really a question. It was a confident step in a well-choreographed sequence. Julia felt the pull. The barracks had been about raw, undeniable consumption. This was seduction, a slow, clever winding of a spool. The memory of Demid's roughness was a grounding wire, a contrast that made this intellectual game even more tantalizing.
"Your office," Julia echoed. "Won't your... other students be waiting?"
Lev's smile turned wry. "Andrei and I have something of a reputation for extended office hours. We find truth is rarely found within scheduled blocks." He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "Besides, the smartest ones aren't always the ones enrolled in our courses."
Andrei had fallen into step beside Olga. "He means we've slept with most of the interesting people on campus," he said bluntly, but his tone was light, factual. "Graduate students. A few daring junior faculty. The vice-chancellor's rather adventurous wife last spring. It gets repetitive. The same conversations, the same... hypothesis testing."
Olga arched a brow. "You make it sound like a research project."
"Isn't it?" Andrei countered. "Motivation, methodology, results. The human animal is the most complex system of all. But you..." He glanced at her, then at Julia ahead. "You are outliers. New data. Married, I'd wager, from the rings. But not happily, or you wouldn't be here, letting two strange men lead you to a private office. You carry yourselves with a certainty most of our acolytes lack. And you have a... freshness. A charged stillness, like you've just remembered how to use your bodies."
His assessment, so eerily accurate, stole Julia's breath for a second. This wasn't flattery. It was diagnosis. They entered a quieter wing, the carpet absorbing their footsteps, the walls lined with portraits of grim-faced academic founders. The air smelled of old paper and dust.
Lev unlocked a heavy oak door marked ‘Prof. L. Mishin – Dept. Head’. The office was not a sterile cube. It was a lair. Bookshelves groaned under the weight of volumes and curious artifacts: a carved African mask, a Balinese puppet, a framed fragment of textile. A low leather sofa dominated one side, a Persian rug softening the floor. A large window did indeed frame a postcard view of the river winding through the city. On a sideboard, a sophisticated copper coffee maker steamed gently.
“Welcome to the sanctum,” Lev said, moving to the carafe.
“Welcome to the sanctum,” Lev said, moving to the carafe. “Please, claim the sofa.” His office felt like a stage, a curated set designed for intimacy under the guise of intellectual pursuit.
Olga floated over to the vast window, peering down at the ribbon of water far below. “You can see my husband’s office from here,” she mused, more to herself. The general’s administrative fortress was just a grey smudge on the opposite bank. The distance felt significant, symbolic.
Andrei closed the door. The click was softer than the barracks lock, but just as definitive. He leaned against it, his satchel dropping to the floor.“So. Married women slumming in academia. Seeking a different flavor of transgression than whatever it is you normally do.”
Julia settled onto the supple leather sofa. It sighed beneath her. “What makes you think we ‘normally’ do anything?” She crossed her legs, letting her dress ride up her thigh a calculated inch. The memory of Chernoy’s hands on those same thighs was a phantom pressure, making this careful game feel thrillingly safe.
Lev brought over two delicate china cups, the coffee fragrant and dark. “The confidence. The specific hunger in your eyes. Most people in your position—beautiful, obviously well-kept—wear their boredom like a heavy coat. Yours has been shed. You’re vibrating.”
Olga turned from the window, accepting a cup. She took a sip, her eyes closing briefly. “Good coffee. My husband only drinks cheap Georgian brandy. It makes his kisses taste like a cleaning rag.”
“Anthropologically fascinating,” Lev said, his smile broadening. He perched on the wide arm of the sofa near Julia, invading her space with academic grace. “The trophies of powerful men often gather dust. They forget trophies need polishing.” His hand came to rest on the sofa back, his fingers just brushing the ends of her black hair.
Andrei pushed off the door and walked to Olga. He stood close, not touching her, examining the side of her neck. “You have a bruise. Perfectly shaped. Thumb and forefinger. Recent.” He stated it like noting a planetary anomaly.
Olga didn’t flinch. She tilted her head, giving him better access.“An accident. A door.”
“A passionate door,” Andrei corrected, a smirk finally touching his lips. He leaned in and inhaled near her temple. “Salt.Expensive perfume. And beneath it… a pheromonal cocktail of adrenaline and recent, vigorous sex. Not your husband’s, I’d hypothesize.”
Julia laughed, a low, genuine sound that surprised her. She looked from Andrei’s intense scrutiny to Lev’s polished avarice. “And what’s your hypothesis, Professor Mishin? From your cultural angle?”
Lev’s fingers finally made contact, tracing a slow line from her hair, down her neck, to the rim of her dress’s sleeve. “My hypothesis is that you came here to be seen by a different kind of man. The soldier provides a brute confirmation of desirability. We provide the… annotation. The footnotes.” His touch was feather-light, a world away from the barracks. It was a question.
“You think we want to be studied?” Olga asked, setting her cup down with a quiet clink on a side table littered with geodes.
“I think you want to be understood,” Andrei said, his hand coming up to Olga’s cheek, turning her face to his. “The soldier takes understanding for granted. We earn it.” He kissed her. It wasn't a claiming. It was an inquiry. Precise, searching, and deeply intelligent.
Olga’s response was a soft, surrendering moan. Her hands came up to grip his shoulders, pulling him closer. The playful teasing evaporated. The air in the room thickened, charged with a new, cerebral electricity.
Watching them, Julia felt Lev’s breath on her ear. “Your turn for fieldwork, Counselor.” He didn’t kiss her. He used his words, his voice a warm, insistent vibration. “Describe the difference. My mouth on you, versus his. My hands. Will they be tools of analysis, or conquest?”
The challenge was exquisitely tailored. It demanded her participation, her mind. She turned her head, her lips a hair's breadth from his. “Show me your methodology.”
That was all the invitation he needed. His kiss was a deep, languid exploration. There was no violence, only a profound, patient consumption. His tongue mapped the terrain of her mouth with scholarly thoroughness. One hand cradled the back of her head, the other rested on her knee, his thumb stroking the inside of her thigh with rhythmic intensity.
From across the room came the sound of a zipper. Andrei had Olga pressed against the bookshelves, his mouth on her neck, his hands pushing her silk blouse from her shoulders. “The fabric is a barrier to data collection,” he murmured, his voice muffled against her skin.
Olga giggled, a breathless, excited sound. “Then remove the variable.”
Julia broke the kiss, breathing heavily. She looked at Lev, her mind clear and fiercely focused. “He fucked me like he was punishing a crime. He called me a hungry cunt.” She stated it plainly, watching his reaction.
Lev’s eyes darkened with a primal interest that contradicted his polished demeanor. “And did the punishment fit the crime?” His hand slid higher up her thigh, the dress bunching.
“Yes.” The word was a confession and a triumph.
“Good.” His fingers found the damp lace beneath her dress. He didn’t push inside. He pressed the heel of his hand against her, creating a firm, maddening pressure as he kissed her again. “I won’t punish you. I’ll curate you. I’ll arrange your pleasure like artifacts in a case.”
It was the right thing to say. It acknowledged the past without replicating it. It promised a new, controlled kind of loss. She arched against his hand, a desperate, wordless plea.
On the other side of the room, Olga was topless, her breasts pressed against Andrei’s crisp shirt. He had her cream trousers unbuttoned, his hand delving inside. “Lubrication is a key data point,” he said, his voice clinical even as his breathing hitched. He brought his fingers to his mouth, tasting. “Confirming the hypothesis. You are… remarkably receptive.”
He pushed her trousers down and turned her around, bending her over a sturdy oak desk. Thesis pages fluttered to the floor. He gripped her hips, his erection straining against his own trousers, pressed against her bare ass. “Now we test for depth and consistency.”
Julia watched, mesmerized, as Andrei entered Olga with a single, smooth, powerful thrust. Olga cried out, her hands splayed on the wood, her head thrown back. It was controlled, relentless, and deeply observant. He set a rigorous, measured rhythm, his eyes fixed on where their bodies joined, like a scientist monitoring a reaction.
“He’s… he’s taking notes in his head,” Olga gasped, laughing through her pleasure.
“Always,” Andrei grunted, never breaking his pace.
Lev, seeing Julia’s fixation, gently turned her face back to him. “Focus on your own dataset.” He guided her off the sofa and onto her knees on the Persian rug. The intricate patterns blurred beneath her. He stood before her, unbuckling his belt with deliberate slowness. “The oral presentation. A crucial component of any rigorous study.”
He freed himself. He was long, elegant, and fully erect. Different from Chernoy, but no less impressive. He stroked himself once, his eyes holding hers. “Analyze.”
Julia didn’t hesitate. She leaned forward and took him into her mouth with the same focused devotion she’d shown in the barracks, but her mindset was different. This wasn't about servicing a weapon or sealing a transaction. This was about mastering a new discipline. She used her tongue to trace the prominent vein along the underside, to circle the smooth head, to probe the sensitive frenulum. She listened to his breathing, calibrated the pressure of her lips, the depth of her throat, based on his subtle feedback—a hitch, a low groan, the tightening of his fingers in her hair.
“Her technique is… impeccable,” Lev managed to say to the room, his voice strangled. “The absence of a gag reflex is a rare and valuable trait.”
Inspired, Olga broke from Andrei’s grip. She slid from the desk, leaving him momentarily empty, and dropped to her knees beside Julia. “Let’s compare results,” she giggled, her voice husky. She reached for Andrei, who approached, his cock glistening with her wetness. Olga took him into her mouth with a hungry, swirling motion, her eyes closing in concentration.
The two women knelt side by side on the rug, their bodies angled toward each other, their heads bobbing in a synchronized, yet personal, rhythm. The only sounds were wet sucks, ragged male breathing, and the soft rustle of clothing.
Lev tangled both hands in Julia’s dark hair, not forcing, but guiding. “Deeper.Yes. Use your throat. Document that sensation.” He was unravelling, his academic facade cracking to reveal raw need.
Andrei braced a hand on a bookshelf, looking down at Olga’s blonde head working him. “The variance in suction is notable. Deliberate. You’re modulating the variables.”
Olga released him with a gasp, grinning up. “I’m trying to make you forget your own name, Professor.” She dove back down, taking him to the root.
Julia felt Lev’s thighs begin to tremble. His grip tightened. “I’m… I’m concluding this phase of the research,” he stammered, his composure gone.
She increased her pace, hollowing her cheeks, her throat working rhythmically. With a shout that was pure, un-curated instinct, Lev came. Julia swallowed steadily, meticulously, until he was spent. She released him slowly, licking her lips as she sat back on her heels, feeling a deep, scholarly satisfaction.
A moment later, Andrei followed, his climax shuddering through him in quiet, intense waves as Olga milked him dry. She finished with a soft kiss to his tip, then rested her forehead against his thigh, breathing hard.
Silence fell, broken only by panting. The late afternoon sun slanted across the rug, illuminating dust motes dancing in the charged air. Julia looked at Olga, whose makeup was smeared, her hair a glorious mess. They shared a look of absolute, exhausted, triumphant comprehension. This had not been a replacement for the barracks. It had been its complex, beautiful opposite. A conversation instead of a declaration.