The F1 Champion Wants to Claim Me for Herself in a Reverse World
Chapter 40: Blue shell

There’s something primal about the taste of your wife that makes you forget your own name. I’m drowning in sensation as Ivy hovers above me, her powerful thighs bracketing my hips, her mouth suspended over mine as she deliberately lets a long strand of her saliva fall between my parted lips. On paper, it should be disgusting, this exchange of fluids beyond the standard coupling, but with Ivy, even the filthiest acts feel like sacred ceremonies.

“Fuck, I’m coming,” I gasp, the words barely coherent as my hips buck upward. My entire body tenses as I empty myself deep inside her, each pulse sending electric currents through my nervous system. Her purple eyes never leave mine, watching with predatory satisfaction as she reduces me to trembling surrender.

She swallows my moans with a deep kiss, her tongue claiming my mouth as thoroughly as her body claims everything else. When she finally pulls back, a wicked smile plays across her lips, her purple-highlighted hair framing her face like a halo designed in hell.

“Good boy,” she purrs, her accent thicker in these intimate moments. With the same athletic grace that makes her a three-time world champion, she lifts herself off me, my release already beginning to leak from her as she stands beside our bed.

I lie there panting, my chest heaving as I watch her move across our bedroom. Even in this unguarded moment, especially in this unguarded moment, she’s breathtaking. The late afternoon light filtering through our blinds catches on the sheen of sweat covering her athletic body, making her glow like some perfect goddess.

“Oh hey,” she says casually, as if she hadn’t just fucked my soul out of my body moments ago, “I got something from the team today I need your help with.”

I struggle to prop myself up on my elbows, still dizzy from our coupling. “Hmm?”

Ivy doesn’t bother cleaning herself, just pulls on a pair of gray sweatpants and a casual Zenith team shirt. The thought of my seed still inside her as she dresses sends an unexpected aftershock of pleasure through me. There’s something deeply satisfying about it, instinctual and possessive in a way I never knew I could feel.

She rummages through a bag by the dresser, her movements precise despite her disheveled state. When she turns back toward me, she’s holding a sleek black device that makes my brain short-circuit.

“Is that…” I can’t even finish the sentence, my jaw literally dropping open as I stare at what’s unmistakably a Nintendo Switch 2 in her hands.

“What the fuck?” I finally manage, sitting bolt upright. “That’s not out until next month!”

Ivy’s lips curve into a mischievous smile as she tosses the device onto the bed beside me. “Nintendo’s sponsoring Zenith for a few races this season,” she explains, running a hand through her tousled purple-highlighted hair. “They want me and Blair to do some promotional stuff with their new Peach Kart game. Problem is, I only play racing sims off season.”

I pick up the unreleased console, turning it over in my hands with a reverent awe that only comes with new generation. “Holy shit, this is sick.”

“Are you any good at Peach Kart?” Ivy sits on the edge of the bed, her weight creating a dip that pulls me slightly toward her.

“Actually, yeah,” I say, unable to hide my excitement. “Peach Kart 8 was one of my go-to games. I was pretty decent, had all the shortcuts memorized and everything.”

Something dangerous flashes across Ivy’s eyes, that competitive spark I’ve seen countless times before races. She leans forward, her face inches from mine, that predatory smile widening.

“Perfect,” she purrs, her accent making the word sound like a promise and a threat simultaneously. “Perhaps I can finally treat you like a proper competitor for once.”

My heart skips a beat. I wonder if I even want to be her rival.

I feel a knot forming in my stomach. The Switch 2 suddenly feels heavier in my hands, and I set it down carefully on the rumpled sheets between us.

“I’d love to play you, but...” I hesitate, studying her eager expression. “I’m not sure I want to end up like Enza just because we played a video game together.”

Ivy’s face transforms instantly, her competitive glint replaced by genuine confusion. Her eyebrows knit together as she reaches for my hand.

“Nick,” she says softly, “what are you talking about? You’re my husband, my lover, and my best friend first. Competitor comes dead last on that list.” She squeezes my fingers, her purple eyes intensely focused on mine. “I would never risk what we have for a few seconds’ advantage in anything, darling. Not even if you were being an insufferable winner about it.”

The sincerity in her voice makes my chest tighten. I launch forward, wrapping my arms around her solid frame, burying my face against her neck. She smells like sex and expensive shampoo and something uniquely Ivy that I can’t get enough of.

“Alright, let’s play then.”

*****

The afternoon dissolves into evening as we lose ourselves in the vibrant world of Peach Kart. We’ve migrated to the floor, sitting cross-legged on the plush carpet of our bedroom, shoulders occasionally bumping as we drive around. The competition is fierce but playful, each of us winning our fair share of races.

Until Moo Moo Farms.

“Yeah, Suck it!” Ivy taunts, her character pulling ahead in the final lap. Her entire body leans forward as if the physical motion might propel her kart faster. The intensity radiating from her is almost comical, the same laser focus she applies to Formula 1 now directed at Mario game in a different world.

I’m trailing in second place, accepting my inevitable defeat when the game’s iconic warning sound blares through the speakers.

“FUCK YES!” I shout as the blue shell appears on screen, hurtling toward Ivy’s character with merciless precision.

The explosion rocks her kart, sending it spinning off course just before the finish line. But fate isn’t done with her yet. As she recovers, a red shell, slams into her, knocking her back even further.

I zoom past, along with a slew of NPCs. By the time Ivy crosses the finish line, she’s in sixth place.

The silence that follows lasts approximately two seconds.

“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?” Ivy erupts, her face contorting with genuine rage. “What is the fucking POINT of being in first place the ENTIRE RACE if some BULLSHIT blue shell can just DESTROY YOU OUT OF NOWHERE?”

Before I can respond, she hurls her controller at the wall with championship-worthy force. It hits with a sickening crack, plastic fragments scattering across our bedroom floor like shrapnel.

“Ivy!” I yelp, scrambling to my feet. “I don’t think we can break these!”

She’s on her feet now too, pacing like a caged tiger, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. “That game is RIGGED! It’s designed to punish skill! What kind of sadistic developer creates a weapon that ONLY targets first place?”

I approach cautiously, retrieving the broken controller pieces. “It’s just a game mechanic to keep races close and exciting.”

“It’s BULLSHIT, is what it is,” she snarls, whirling toward me. “Can you imagine if Formula 1 worked that way? If they just SLOWED DOWN the leader because they were too far ahead? ‘Oh, Ivy Hunt is winning by too much, let’s throw a fucking BLUE SHELL at her car!’”

I can’t help it, the mental image of an actual blue shell chasing Ivy’s purple F1 car around Monza makes me burst into laughter.

My laughter dies in my throat as Ivy’s eyes lock onto mine, blazing with fury. There’s something about the way her jaw clenches, the tightness in her shoulders, that sends a different kind of heat coursing through me.

“You think this is funny?” she growls, stalking toward me like a predator. “You’re enjoying seeing me like this?”

A flush creeps up my neck, spreading across my cheeks as I realize with startling clarity that yes, I do enjoy it. “Maybe a little,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.

Her expression shifts, anger giving way to something darker, more hungry. Without warning, she lunges forward, grabbing my shoulders and shoving me backward. I hit our mattress with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs, bouncing slightly on impact.

“You like when I’m angry?” she purrs, her accent thickening dangerously. “When I lose control?”

I spread my arms wide in invitation, already feeling myself hardening despite our recent activities. “Come here,” I breathe.

The transformation is immediate. As she crawls onto the bed and into my embrace, the tension melts from her body. She collapses against my chest, burying her face in the crook of my neck, her breath hot against my skin.

“You’re insane,” she murmurs, but there’s no bite to her words. Her arms snake around me, holding me with surprising delicateness. “Absolutely crazy.”

I run my fingers through her purple-streaked hair, savoring the weight of her against me. “I know.”

“I can’t believe you’re turned on by me being angry,” she says, pressing a soft kiss to my collarbone. “That’s so fucked up.”

“Says the woman who just threw a controller at the wall over a blue shell.”

She nips at my skin in retaliation, the sharp sting making me gasp. “You’re lucky I love you so much,” she whispers, her hand sliding down my stomach. “Otherwise I’d make you pay for that comment.”

“Maybe I want to pay for it,” I suggest, my hips rising to meet her wandering fingers.

Ivy’s lips curve into a wicked smile as her hand wraps around me. “You’re turning into a little brat, aren’t you?” she purrs, giving me a squeeze that makes my toes curl. “Where’s that sweet boy I married?”

I meet her gaze with newfound boldness, heart hammering against my ribs. “Don’t you want me to fight back a little?” The words come out huskier than intended, betraying how much I’m enjoying this shift in our dynamic.

She straddles me in one fluid motion, her powerful thighs caging my hips as she studies my face with predatory fascination. “I want you to be happy,” she says, grinding against me with deliberate slowness. Her purple eyes darken with desire as she adds, “But yes, it is fun when you show a little fight.”

Her fingers trace my jawline, then slip lower to dance across my collarbone. She leans down until her lips brush against my ear, her breath hot and intimate. “You know,” she whispers, voice dropping to that velvet register that makes my skin prickle with goosebumps, “I was thinking about that bet we made a few races ago... the one I lost.”

My body responds instantly to the memory, blood rushing south so fast I feel lightheaded.

“But maybe,” she continues, teeth grazing my earlobe, “I’ve earned a little skirt action after winning Saudi Arabia and Miami back-to-back.” Her hand slides between us, fingers wrapping around my hardness with possessive certainty. “What do you think, husband?”

Heat floods my face, spreading down my neck and chest in a visible wave of crimson. The image of myself in a skirt, vulnerable and exposed for her pleasure, sends a jolt of electricity straight through me. “Alright, fine,” I manage, my voice barely audible. “I’ll wear a skirt for you on race day.”

The look that crosses Ivy’s face can only be described as unholy. Her pupils dilate so completely that the purple of her irises is reduced to thin rings around bottomless black. She crashes her mouth against mine with bruising force, her tongue demanding entrance as her body presses me deeper into the mattress.

When she finally pulls back, we’re both gasping for air, her lipstick smeared across my mouth, my chest heaving against hers. The intensity in her eyes makes my entire body tremble with anticipation.

“You better fucking win if they’re going to take pictures of us kissing while I’m in that skirt,” I pant.

Her lips curl into that predatory smile that makes my heart race. “Of course I’ll win,” she purrs, her accent thick with arousal. “I always perform best when properly motivated.” Her fingers trace down my chest, nails dragging lightly against my skin. “And the thought of you in a skirt, waiting for me at the podium... that’s more than enough motivation.”