Stress Relief

When he’s stressed there is very little preamble. He talks less, or not at all. She’s never seen him angry, but she wonders sometimes if this is a little like what he might be like when he’s angry. She doesn’t dislike it.

When he’s stressed he is… curt. Still polite. He comes in, takes off his tie, takes off his shoes. Asks her how her day has been.

“It’s been good,” she says. “Quiet.”

He nods. “You’ve been at work?”

“I’ve been at work.”

“Take off your clothes.” Curt like that. Like this is the next obvious logical step in their interaction – part of the natural flow of conversation. She takes off her clothes and kneels, and lowers her head. Humble. Small.

He takes off his clothes, kneels in front of her. Forehead to forehead. Not kissing, but agonisingly close to kissing. Sometimes, at this stage, he will speak to her. Almost a warning, as though she hasn’t already realised. As though she isn’t attuned to every slight change in his mood.

“It’s been a difficult day,” he’ll say. “I’m going to take it out on you.”

And she will say, “Yes, Sir,” or, “That’s what I’m for, Sir,” or, “Of course, Sir.”

He is rougher with her when he’s stressed. Still calm, still methodical, still entirely in control. But he holds her down firmly, with his full weight, and when he pulls her hair it hurts, and when he fucks her she is shocked, sometimes, by the loudness of their bodies slamming together, by the moans and whimpers he fucks out of her.

It is a brief and violent storm, when he’s stressed. He fucks her violently, usually from behind, usually pushing so deep that it slightly frightens her. He comes quickly, leaves her cunt feeling bruised and tender. Bite marks purpling on her shoulders. Her lips numb.

Afterwards, calm returns. They lie together. Silence. He’ll talk again soon, she knows, and when he does he will be just as he normally is. The tension in him gone now, dissipated in the pain and energy of their coupling. When he’s stressed, he fucks her violently. She doesn’t mind one bit.