The F1 Champion Wants to Claim Me for Herself in a Reverse World
Chapter 42: Spunk

There's something surreal about sitting in the FIA stewards' office with your wife while officials in another room analyze your splooge. The stark fluorescent lighting makes the plain white walls almost painfully bright as Ivy and I wait, shoulder to shoulder, on uncomfortable plastic chairs.

"Mrs. and Mr. Hunt," the chief steward had said with painful formality before leaving us alone, "please remain here while we conduct our investigation."

Now we're just... waiting. Ivy's leg bounces with restless energy beside mine, her purple racing suit still damp with champagne from the podium celebration. She keeps pressing her lips together in that specific way she does when she's trying desperately not to laugh. I'm not doing much better, a persistent bubble of hysteria threatening to escape my throat every time our eyes meet.

"Do you think they have a special testing protocol for this?" I whisper, my voice cracking slightly with suppressed laughter. "Like, did they have to call in a specialist?"

Ivy snorts, her shoulders shaking with silent giggles. "Imagine the poor lab technician's face when they explained what needed testing."

The mental image sends us both into another fit of barely contained laughter. I have to bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood.

"This is ridiculous," Ivy finally manages, wiping at the corner of her eye. "They're actually treating this like some form of performance enhancement."

"Would doping even make a difference in F1?" I ask, genuinely curious. "I mean, it's not like cycling where it's all about endurance."

Ivy shrugs, her championship ring catching the light as she runs a hand through her purple-streaked hair. "I don't have a clue, honestly. The physical demands are different. Reaction time, G-force resistance..." She trails off, considering it seriously for a moment before her face cracks into another smile. "But I'm pretty sure your bodily fluids aren't on any banned substance lists."

"I nod, reaching over to squeeze her hand. "I mean, you're innocent regardless."

"Of course I am," she replies with mock indignation. "Unless loving my husband too much before races is suddenly against regulation."

The door swings open abruptly, revealing three stern-faced officials carrying tablets and looking like they'd rather be anywhere else. The middle one, a severe woman with graying hair pulled back in a tight bun, clears her throat uncomfortably.

"Mrs. Hunt, after thorough analysis, we've determined that while your... communication was highly inappropriate for broadcast, there is no technical violation of any performance-enhancing substance rules."

Ivy leans forward in her chair, those purple eyes glinting with mischief as she meets the steward's gaze directly.

"So, just to clarify," she says, her voice carrying that deliberate innocence that makes my stomach drop. "It's alright for my husband to blast as much of his godly cum into my aching pussy before a race, right? Because for me, if I'm not bursting at the seams with Nick's seed, I'm not sure I can race."

The steward's face goes through an impressive spectrum of emotions, shock, disgust, embarrassment, and finally resignation. Behind her, one of the male officials actually turns away, his shoulders shaking with what might be suppressed laughter or a nervous breakdown.

"Mrs. Hunt," the woman says, her voice strained to breaking point, "we are not here to... to approve your pre-race rituals. We are simply stating that no technical regulations were violated."

I sink lower in my chair, feeling heat flood my face. "Ivy, please," I whisper, but my protest lacks conviction. Part of me, a much larger part than I'd like to admit, is enjoying this spectacle.

"I'm just being thorough," Ivy replies, giving my thigh a reassuring squeeze. "These things need to be clear for future reference. I don't want any surprises next race."

The steward closes her eyes briefly, as if praying for strength. "This conversation is over. You're free to go."

As we step out of the sterile confines of the stewards' office, we're immediately bombarded by a wall of flashing cameras and shouting journalists. The paddock press corps has materialized like vultures sensing fresh carrion, microphones thrust forward and recorders blinking red.

Ivy's hand tightens around mine as her lips curl into that smile I've come to recognize, the one that means she's about to cause absolute chaos. She leans in close, her breath warm against my ear.

"How explicit can I be about our little situation?" she whispers, purple eyes gleaming with mischievous intent. "What's your comfort level here?"

I swallow hard, acutely aware of the dozens of lenses capturing our every move. "I mean, it already aired on international television," I reply, resignation mixing with a strange thrill. "Might as well own it at this point."

Her grin widens to predatory proportions as she straightens, squaring her shoulders with championship confidence. She raises one hand, and the shouting instantly diminishes as the press corps collectively holds its breath.

"I'll take a few questions," she announces, her accent crisp and commanding.

"Mrs. Hunt!" A journalist from Autosport lunges forward. "Can you explain what happened in the car during the race?"

Ivy's smile doesn't falter as she launches into her response with the same precision she applies to hairpin turns.

"Well, as I think everyone with a television now knows, my husband and I have certain pre-race rituals that we find help me race." She wraps her arm possessively around my waist. "Unfortunately, today there was a slight... containment issue."

The assembled journalists erupt in nervous laughter, pens scribbling frantically as they capture every word.

"Mrs. Hunt!" A voice calls out from the back of the press scrum. "What exactly about Nick's... fluids helps you race better?"

The question hangs in the air for a beat. I feel my face burning hot, but Ivy's expression transforms completely. Her usual media-trained smile melts away, replaced by something I've only seen in private.

"That's actually a fascinating question," she replies, her voice dropping to an earnest, almost hushed tone. Her eyes light up with genuine enthusiasm as she leans into the microphone. "I believe there's something almost transcendent happening. Like I'm absorbing Nick's essence into my very being."

My jaw slackens as she continues, completely unfiltered.

"When we're intimate before a race, I believe our life forces merge in a very profound way." She places her hand against her stomach, her expression dreamy and distant. "Having Nick sloshing around inside of my womb, feeling that warmth deep within, it creates this incredible connection that goes beyond the physical."

The journalists have gone completely silent, pens frozen mid-air, cameras whirring steadily as they capture every word of this unexpected dissertation.

"During today's race, when I felt him still there, still part of me..." She closes her eyes briefly, lost in the memory. "It's like I go beyond my normal limitations. I'm no longer just operating the car, I become one with the machine. The barrier between driver and vehicle dissolves completely."

Someone coughs awkwardly in the silence that follows. Despite the embarrassment, I stand proudly with my lover.

"That's why I was so concerned when I felt it... leaving me," she concludes, opening her eyes. "I thought I was losing that connection to my husband, that perfect harmony."

The press corps explodes like a dam breaking, a tidal wave of questions flooding toward us with terrifying intensity. Journalists who moments ago were stunned into silence now shove microphones forward with renewed fervor, their professional composure completely abandoned.

"Nick! NICK!" They call my name like I'm some rare exotic animal they've spotted in the wild. "How do you feel about your wife's comments?"

"Is this ritual something you've done with previous partners?"

"Do you believe in the spiritual connection Mrs. Hunt describes?"

The questions come so fast they blur together, a cacophony of intrusive curiosity. A woman from F1TV practically climbs over her colleagues, thrusting her microphone dangerously close to my face.

"As a man, do you feel objectified by your wife's public comments about your bodily fluids?"

I meet the reporter's eyes directly, a strange confidence flowing through me.

"No, I don't think anything Ivy said was sexist or objectifying," I reply, my voice surprisingly steady. "Not at all. She's expressing her truth about our relationship."

I step closer to Ivy, wrapping my arm around her waist. She responds immediately, pulling me even tighter against her side, her fingers digging possessively into my hip. The warmth of her body against mine grounds me, gives me courage to continue.

"Ivy loves me," I state simply, looking at the sea of cameras rather than any particular journalist. "What you're all witnessing is just one facet of that love."

A voice cuts through the momentary silence, sharp and provocative from somewhere in the back of the press scrum.

"Ivy! Do you only love your husband because you believe his fluids help you win races?"

The temperature seems to drop several degrees as Ivy's body goes rigid beside me. Her purple eyes narrow dangerously, scanning the crowd for the source of the question. When she speaks, her voice has that deadly quiet quality that makes even veteran journalists take an instinctive step backward.

"Let me make something absolutely clear," she says, each word precise and cutting. "If Nick asked me to retire from racing right now, this very second, I would hand in my helmet and never look back."

A nervous laugh escapes me before I can stop it, the idea so completely contrary to everything I know about racing and champions. Ivy's hand slides up my back, coming to rest at the nape of my neck, where her fingers gently massage the tension she finds there.

"I love Nick more than racing," she continues, her voice softening as she turns to look at me rather than the press. "Racing is what I do. Nick is who I live for."

The sincerity in her eyes makes my throat tighten with emotion. For a moment, it's just us, the cameras and microphones fading into background noise.

Another journalist breaks the spell, her voice cutting through our private moment. "But Ivy, you went on record just last year saying love was overrated and a distraction from true achievement. Have your feelings changed?"

Ivy's gaze lingers on mine for another heartbeat before she turns back to the press corps. Her lips curve into a small, enigmatic smile.

"Yes," she says simply, offering nothing more.

The journalists wait expectantly, pens poised for elaboration that doesn't come. The silence stretches uncomfortably until Ivy gives a curt nod to the assembled press and takes my hand.

"That's all for today," she announces with finality.