The F1 Champion Wants to Claim Me for Herself in a Reverse World
Chapter 41: Her Cup Runneth Over

There’s something uniquely humiliating about standing in a Formula 1 garage wearing a skirt that could double as a Catholic school uniform while your world-champion wife battles for first place. I watch from my spot near the pit wall as Ivy’s car screams out of the pit lane, fresh hard compound tires gleaming under the Imola sun. The strategists around me tense as the timing screens update, she’s dropped behind Blair thanks to the pit stop, though it’s a temporary setback since Blair still needs to make her own tire change.

“Car looks stable on the hards,” Someone comments beside me, their eyes never leaving the bank of monitors. “She should be able to push through sector two now.”

I nod absently, tugging at the hem of my skirt for what must be the hundredth time today. When Ivy and I made our bet, I’d imagined something scandalous, one of those tiny, barely-there numbers that fashionable men in this world wear to clubs. You know, something that would actually justify my embarrassment.

Instead, I’m drowning in navy blue pleated wool that falls nearly to my ankles. It’s less “seductive husband” and more “19th-century schoolboy.” The first time I saw it hanging in our closet this morning, I actually laughed, thinking it was Ivy’s idea of a joke.

“Is this for real?” I’d asked as she lounged on our bed, watching me with predatory amusement.

“Absolutely,” she’d replied, those purple eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “You’re going to look adorable.”

When I questioned the excessive length, her response was immediate and possessive, “The goods are only for me, Nick. No one else gets to see what’s mine.”

Which, admittedly, made my heart do that ridiculous flutter thing it always does when she gets territorial. But still, what’s the point of sacrificing my dignity if I’m not even properly conforming to this world’s reversed gender expectations?

The headset crackles with Ivy’s voice, sharp and focused as she navigates the track. “Tires feel good. How’s the gap to Blair?”

“She’s pushing hard in sector one,” her race engineer responds. “Looks like she might try to overcut.”

I shift my weight, the heavy wool of the skirt swishing around my legs. The one silver lining in this whole situation, it’s surprisingly comfortable. The freedom of movement is actually kind of nice.

“Your wife’s flying,” Tessa remarks, appearing at my side with a tablet clutched to her chest. She’s kept a polite distance since Ivy’s jealous display in Cambridge, but her natural friendliness seems to be gradually overcoming her caution.

“Yeah, she’s really something special out there,” I agree, eyes tracking Ivy’s purple machine as it devours another sector. The familiar pride swells in my chest, watching her work with such precision.

Tessa shifts beside me, her gaze dropping to my outfit. “That skirt actually looks stunning on you, Nick,” she says, a soft blush creeping across her cheeks. “It suits you perfectly.”

I laugh awkwardly, tugging at the hem again. “Thanks.”

“I’ve just never seen you in anything like this before,” she continues, her voice taking on a nostalgic quality. “Even when we were kids, I don’t think I ever saw you in traditional men’s clothes.”

“My dad tried his best to get me into ‘proper boyish’ outfits,” I explain, making air quotes with my fingers. “But he always caved whenever I complained. Total pushover in the end.”

Tessa’s tablet suddenly emits a series of urgent beeps. Her eyes widen as she glances down at the screen, fingers quickly swiping through whatever data has just appeared.

“Shoot, I’ve got to run,” she says, already backing away. “The telemetry’s showing some anomalies in the rear suspension that I need to check immediately.”

“No worries,” I reply with an encouraging smile. “Keep crushing it with that engineering magic.”

She returns my smile, a quick flash of warmth before her professional focus takes over. With a small wave, she hurries across the garage, already calling out instructions to a nearby technician.

As I watch Tessa disappear into the maze of engineers and equipment, I feel a presence materialize beside me. The unmistakable scent of overpriced perfume announces Lucian’s arrival before I even turn to look at him.

“Well, well,” he drawls, sidling up next to me with that model’s strut of his. His perfect chestnut hair cascades over his shoulders as he gestures dramatically toward the timing screens. “Look at that! Blair’s in the lead. Your precious champion is losing.”

There’s something so smugly victorious in his tone that I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud. Instead, I raise an eyebrow and offer a casual, “Oh?”

“Yes, ‘oh,’” he mimics, leaning closer like he’s sharing insider information. “She’s a full twenty seconds ahead now. I guess we know who the real talent is in this team.”

I can’t help the smile that creeps across my face. “Buddy, Blair hasn’t pitted yet.”

His perfectly sculpted features freeze mid-smirk. “What?”

“Blair hasn’t made her pit stop,” I explain slowly, as if talking to a child. “She still needs to change tires. That’s why she’s temporarily ahead.”

The confidence drains from his face like air from a punctured balloon. His mouth opens and closes several times, reminding me of a particularly well-dressed goldfish gasping for air.

“But... but she’s in the lead,” he stammers, his eyes darting frantically between me and the timing screens.

I gesture toward the pit wall where the strategists are already preparing for Blair’s imminent stop. “Give it one lap. Your girlfriend is going to come out behind Ivy, and then she’ll be chasing for the rest of the race.”

Lucian’s porcelain complexion flushes an interesting shade of pink. He adjusts his designer shirt with trembling fingers, clearly searching for a way to save face.

“You don’t understand racing strategy,” he finally declares, drawing himself up to his full height. “Blair’s trying to build a gap so that when she pits, she’ll still be ahead.”

Lucian lets out a long, dramatic sigh that seems to deflate his entire body.

“This is so tedious,” he mutters, waving his hand dismissively. “I don’t even know why I bother.”

He turns on his heel and strides away, his perfect hair bouncing with each step. It’s almost comical how quickly he abandons the conversation the moment he realizes he can’t wound me with his comments. Without the prospect of drawing blood, I’m apparently not worth his time.

As I’m watching Lucian’s dramatic exit suddenly Ivy’s voice blasts through the garage speakers, panicked and breathless.

“Shit! Fuck! Something’s leaking out of me!”

The entire garage freezes. Her race engineer’s confused voice crackles back, “Can you clarify? Is it hydraulic fluid?”

“No, it’s Nick! His seed is dripping out of me onto the floor of the car! Fuck, I’m losing it all! I Can’t fucking win like this!”

My mouth drops open as her words echo through the completely silent garage. Every head swivels toward me in perfect unison, eyes wide with shock. Even the mechanics who were previously absorbed in their tasks are now staring directly at my crimson face.

But strangely, I don’t feel embarrassed. Instead, a wave of irritation washes over me as I realize my wife is genuinely distressed about this while racing at 200 mph.

“Well? Help her!” I snap at the stunned faces around me. “She’s clearly concerned! Can we block her up?”

Her race engineer blinks rapidly, her mouth opening and closing several times before he finally presses his radio button. “Ivy, I’m... I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do about that particular situation from here. Please just maintain your pace and focus on the race.”

Tessa rushes over, her face ghost-white as she clutches her tablet. “Oh my god, Nick,” she whispers urgently. “The broadcast just picked her entire exchange. It went out live to everyone!”

It hits me like a freight train, millions of viewers worldwide just heard about my bodily fluids leaking out of my wife during a Grand Prix. The thought should mortify me, but instead, a strange calm settles over me as I turn to Tessa.

“Wait, is it against regulations to race with cum inside you?” I ask, surprisingly practical despite the circumstances.

The team members exchange bewildered glances. Tessa adjusts her glasses nervously, her cheeks flushed crimson.

“I don’t believe there’s any specific rule about... bodily fluids,” she manages, scrolling frantically through her tablet. “No, nothing in the technical regulations covers this particular situation.”

“Then who cares?” I shrug, watching the timing screens where Ivy’s sector times are slipping by hundredths of seconds. “If it’s not illegal, it’s not a problem.”

Tessa stares at me in disbelief. “Aren’t you mortified? The entire world just heard about your... intimate details!”

I run a hand through my hair, watching Ivy’s purple car weaving slightly on the track. “Look, Ivy genuinely believes it makes her faster, something about making her the messiah. She’s very particular about her pre-race rituals.”

The absurdity of defending my wife’s superstitions while dressed in this ridiculous skirt suddenly irritates me. I march over to Ivy’s race engineer, a stern-faced woman whose name I’ve embarrassingly never bothered to learn despite months of marriage to Ivy.

“Let me on the radio,” I demand, holding out my hand for her headset.

She recoils like I’ve asked to drive the car myself. “Absolutely not. Team communications only.”

I level my gaze at her, channeling a bit of Ivy’s intimidating energy. “I can fix this. She’s losing time worrying about something only I can address.”

Her eyes narrow, calculating the competitive disadvantage of Ivy’s distraction against the protocol breach.

“Fine,” she relents with a sigh, passing me the headset. “But keep it brief and professional.”

I slip the headset over my ears, heart pounding as I press the talk button. “Ivy? It’s Nick.”

The response is immediate. “Nick? They let you on comms?” Her voice sounds both surprised and relieved.

“Yes, it’s me.” I take a deep breath, suddenly aware of how ridiculous this whole situation is. “Listen, Ivy. If what’s inside you is overflowing, it only means there’s an abundance there, plenty to spare. You’ve got more than enough to make it through this race, okay?”

There’s a moment of silence on the line, and I can almost picture her face softening from panic to understanding.

“You’re right,” she responds, her voice noticeably calmer. “Of course. That makes perfect sense.” Her breathing steadies through the headset. “Thank you, Nick.”

“Good luck, baby,” I say softly. “Bring it home.”

I hand the headphones back to the engineer, whose expression has transformed from mortification to cautious optimism. “That should fix it,” I tell her with more confidence than I feel.

On the screens above us, Blair’s car finally dives into pit lane, her tires visibly degraded after pushing so hard. Almost simultaneously, Ivy’s purple machine rockets past the, her lap time dropping by nearly three-tenths.

“Her pace is back,” the engineer confirms, shoulders relaxing as she studies the telemetry. “Whatever you said worked.”

“Thank God.”