On a kick-tolerance scale of gun-shy to gorilla, I'm on the wimpish end, painfully aware that save for a slice of rubber, all that lies between my clavicle and a measured load of explosives are brass, steel, and hardwood. Hugging a rifle has much in common with sitting on a stump over dynamite. Either practice can bring on a flinch.
A stock with lots of drop from comb to heel leaps up to pound your cheek. A sharp comb hikes the pain. Straight combs, with little drop and a gently rounded top, slide past your cheek. The forward-sloping comb on Weatherby's Mark V treats you well, with recoil pushing the stock away from your face.