Between the two of you, Victoria has more class. Years of media-training and being shone in the public light, while pandering to decrepit, bigoted politicians made your wife an absolute weapon in conducting herself with ridiculous amounts of dignity and grace. You haven't a clue how she does it. God knows that if you were up on that stage, or the shady political backwoods, you'd be shot and killed for telling some important member of parliament to shove it up their saggy fucking ass.

Except, this is your wife, you're talking about. And as hot as 100-percent-on, cold, cut-throat politician, fuck-you-over-with-a-smile Victoria is; exhausted, sweaty, post-work i'm-so-fucking-over-it-baby Vicky is your favourite.

"Oh my fucking God. This country is run by fucking idiots!" Is the first thing you hear after the front door slams, and the sound of heels being deposited viciously before your wife makes her entrance is a signifier of just how shitty her day's been. Her eyes fall on you, immediately, tongue flicking out to wet pursed lips, and you can see the darkness circling under her eyes, the weary lines of her face (and also, the way the outer jacket of her pantsuit is slung over her shoulder, button-up loosely undone, sticking to her skin with the damp remnants of sweat). She's on you in seconds, eyes flashing as hands seize your chin. She kisses you like she's trying to suck your soul out from your fucking mouth.

She grunts, slumping into your, fingers already moving with clumsy ferocity. Oh, she needs this. This is the one thing that's been tiding her over the whole day; the thought of her beautiful, gorgeous, ** breathy-noisy-can't-help-herself wife. At home, waiting for her.