The F1 Champion Wants to Claim Me for Herself in a Reverse World
Chapter 43: Twitching on Twitch

There’s something surreal about having your world-champion wife jerk you off under the desk while fifteen thousand people watch you play video games. Not that they can see what’s happening below the camera frame, thank God, but the knowledge alone has me sweating bullets as I navigate the digital curves of Dragon Trail on the brand-new PlayStation 5 Ivy got me.

“Guys, I’m so sorry about that last corner,” I stammer, trying to keep my voice steady as Ivy’s fingers work their magic beneath the table. “Still getting used to the steering sensitivity on this setup.”

The chat explodes with comments, scrolling too fast to read properly, though I catch snippets about my driving form being “absolute trash” and how I should “stick to being pretty.” Typical stream banter that normally wouldn’t faze me, but tonight everything feels amplified.

Ivy leans into frame, her purple-highlighted hair cascading over my shoulder as she pretends to study the race. Her free hand reaches for the mouse, scrolling through the chat with practiced nonchalance while her other hand continues its torturous ministrations below.

“You’re all being very rude to my husband,” she announces to the camera, her accent thickening with deliberate menace. “I’ve banned three people already. Don’t make me get serious.”

The chat immediately shifts tone, flooding with apologetic messages and heart emojis. It’s remarkable how quickly fifteen thousand people can pivot from mockery to adoration with one stern word from Ivy Hunt.

“Baby, you missed that apex,” she says, pointing at the screen with her free hand while the other squeezes me just hard enough to make my car swerve dangerously on track. “Focus.”

“I’m trying,” I grit through clenched teeth, painfully aware that my face must be flushed crimson. “It’s just... challenging right now.”

Her lips curve into a wicked smile just visible at the edge of the camera frame. “Life is full of challenges, husband.”

The chat continues its relentless scroll, dominated now by reactions to our earlier press conference disaster. The cum incident, as it’s being called online, has somehow transformed from a potential career-ending scandal to viral marketing gold in the span of twenty-four hours. Zenith’s social media engagement is up 400%, and my humble racing stream has suddenly become the hottest ticket on Twitch.

“NicksMechanic donated fifty dollars,” I read aloud, grateful for the distraction. “Says, ‘How are you guys handling the separation tomorrow? First time apart since you got together, right?’”

Ivy’s hand stills momentarily beneath the table, her expression softening as she turns to face me. There’s a vulnerability in her purple eyes that the camera can’t quite capture, a flicker of genuine concern beneath her confident exterior.

“We’ll manage,” she says, her voice carrying a forced lightness. “It’s only for a week. Nick’s sister needs him for her Indy run, and I’ve got Monaco to prepare for.”

What she doesn’t say, what the viewers can’t possibly understand, is how this separation has been looming over us like a storm cloud for days.

“It’ll go by quick,” I add, reaching to squeeze her shoulder reassuringly. “Before you know it, I’ll be back annoying you in no time.”

A notification pops up on my screen, NickIsMyHusbando has just gifted twenty subscriptions to the channel. My longest-serving moderator has been suspiciously quiet tonight, barely chiming in despite usually being the most active presence in my streams.

“Oh look, your number one fan is feeling generous tonight,” Ivy remarks, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studies the username. Her hand resumes its previous activity with renewed vigor, making me gasp mid-corner and send my digital car careening into the gravel.

“Jesus, Ivy!” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

The chat erupts again, viewers speculating wildly about what just happened. Ivy laughs, the sound both musical and slightly menacing as she leans closer to the microphone.

“What my husband means to say,” Ivy purrs into the microphone, “is that he’s finding it difficult to concentrate because he’s thinking about our separation.”

I try not to whimper as I clutch my Fanatec wheel tighter, desperately trying to get my car back on track. The chat is moving so fast I can barely keep up, but a message from Bluelightning_69 catches my eye, standing out against the blur of text.

“I think it’s fucked up Ivy exposed your private business like that on international TV,” they write. “That was between you two. Aren’t you mortified she did that to you? I bet Blair would have shown more respect for your privacy.”

My breath catches in my throat. The comment hits differently than the others, more personal somehow. I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

“Ignore them,” Ivy whispers in my ear, just quiet enough that the microphone doesn’t pick it up. Her hand moves faster beneath the desk, making it nearly impossible to focus on driving, let alone addressing the chat.

NickIsMyHusbando’s message appears next, highlighted in mod colors: “Nick, blink twice if you need help. You don’t have to do this stream if you’re uncomfortable.”

Something about the message feels oddly protective, almost maternal. It’s strange, they’ve been my main moderator for years, always looking out for me during streams, but tonight there’s an intensity to their concern that feels different.

“Your mod seems very invested in your well-being,” Ivy remarks, her voice deceptively casual as her eyes track the username across the screen. Her grip tightens beneath the desk, making me gasp audibly.

“They’re just being supportive,” I manage, trying to keep my voice steady.

“How sweet,” Ivy says, but there’s a dangerous edge to her tone that makes me nervous.

I force my attention back to the game, somehow managing to keep my car on track despite the mounting pressure, both from the race and from what’s happening beneath my desk. The chat continues to scroll by in a blur of colors and emotes, but I can’t focus on any of it.

I feel the pressure building, that familiar tightening at the base of my spine signaling I’m dangerously close to the edge. My fingers fumble on the wheel as I lean close to Ivy’s ear.

“You need to stop,” I whisper urgently. “I’m about to bust. I can’t do that on stream.”

Instead of slowing, her pace increases, her skilled fingers working me with merciless precision. The gleam in her eyes tells me everything I need to know, she has no intention of stopping.

“NickIsMyHusbando just donated another hundred dollars,” Ivy announces to the stream, her voice honey-sweet even as her hand becomes ruthlessly efficient. “They say they’re worried about you, Nick. Isn’t that adorable?”

She leans closer to the camera, her purple eyes narrowing with predatory focus. “Listen, Husbando,” she purrs, the word dripping with venom despite her smile. “Nick is no husbando of yours. He’s my husband. Mine alone.”

I bite my lip hard enough to hurt, desperately trying to maintain my composure as the first wave hits me. It’s too late, I’m coming undone right here, right now, with fifteen thousand people watching my face. My body surrenders completely as I drop my hands from the wheel, blowing my load out of sight.

“See this face?” Ivy’s free hand grabs my chin, forcing me to look directly into the camera while her other hand continues its relentless movements. “This is mine.”

She pulls my hair without warning, yanking my head back to expose my throat. A pathetic whimper escapes me, a sound that no one could possibly mistake for anything but what it is, pure, desperate pleasure.

The chat explodes with activity, but one message stands out in mod green: “STOP IT! You’re hurting him! Nick, end the stream now!”

Ivy responds by pulling harder, causing me to moan louder involuntarily. The sound seems to echo in our trailer, hanging in the air like a confession.

I should be mortified. I should be scrambling to end the stream, to salvage what’s left of my dignity. Instead, I find myself arching into her touch, my body betraying just how much I’m enjoying this public claiming. The realization hits me with startling clarity, I like this. I like being watched. I like being claimed. It seems I’m becoming an exhibitionist.

When did this happen? When did Ivy’s possessive public displays start turning me on instead of embarrassing me? This fetish that’s been building since we got together has apparently reached its peak, right here on my gaming stream.

When I finally glance down, the evidence of my pleasure is splattered across the desk, a sticky mess glistening under the harsh streaming lights. A groan escapes me, equal parts satisfaction and mortification, as the reality of what just happened crashes over me.

“Oh god,” I murmur, reaching blindly for something to clean up with.

The chat moves at lightning speed now, comments flying by almost too fast to read, but certain phrases jump out at me:

“Why is he moaning?”

“WTF just happened”

“Blair fumbled so badly. Imagine if she went ultra instinct instead”

“SUCH A GOOD BOY FOR MOMMY IVY”

“omg he’s like a puppy 🐶”

“so obedient and cute when he submits”

“the way he WHIMPERED when he gets his hair pulled tho”

My face burns hotter than the streaming lights above us. I should be ashamed, horrified even, but there’s an undeniable thrill coursing through me, a strange pride in being so thoroughly claimed.

Bluelightning_69’s message cuts through the noise, highlighted in bold text. “This doesn’t seem healthy at all. Nick, you look uncomfortable. Is this really what you signed up for?”

Something about the message makes my chest tighten. The concern feels genuine, almost personal.

“No, no, we’re happy together,” I stammer, surprised by my own defensive tone. “This is just... us. How we are.”

NickIsMyHusbando’s response appears instantly, green mod text standing out against the scrolling chaos: “She looks more like your owner than your wife, Nick. Are you safe?”

The words hang there, accusatory and sharp. I open my mouth to defend Ivy, to explain how wrong they are about our relationship, how this dynamic works for us in ways outsiders couldn’t possibly understand.

Before I can form the words, Ivy’s hand settles on my shoulder, her grip firm but gentle. Her purple eyes meet mine, something unreadable flickering in their depths.

“I think this is a good place to end today’s stream,” she announces, her voice smooth as silk but brooking no argument. Her free hand moves toward the keyboard, hovering over the end stream button. “Thank you all for watching.”

With a decisive click, the stream cuts to black. The sudden silence in our streaming room feels almost physical, a tangible presence between us.

“Your mod has quite the attitude,” Ivy remarks, casually licking her fingers as she leans back in her chair.

I stare at her in disbelief, my body still tingling with aftershocks as reality crashes over me. “You can’t just... do that to me on stream, Ivy! What if we get in trouble? That was way over the line.”

My voice comes out higher than intended, panic rising as I grab tissues and frantically wipe at the mess on the desk. Fifteen thousand people just watched me blow my load on camera. Sure, they couldn’t see below the desk, but my face told the whole story.

Ivy tilts her head, studying me with those intense purple eyes that seem to see straight through me. “Trouble? From who exactly? It’s your stream, Nick.”

“From Twitch! They have community guidelines about sexual content.” I run my hands through my hair, still sticky with sweat. “We could get banned.”

Her expression shifts, something almost like hurt flickering across her features before she masks it with casual indifference. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself at the time.” She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Or was I misreading those pretty little sounds you were making?”

Heat floods my face again. She’s not wrong, I did enjoy it.

Before I can overthink it, I cross the small space between us and capture her lips with mine. The kiss is deep and desperate, an apology and confession rolled into one. She responds immediately, her fingers tangling in my hair as she pulls me closer.

When we finally break apart, I rest my forehead against hers. “I just don’t want to cause problems for you,” I whisper. “You’ve already got enough media scrutiny without adding a Twitch ban to the mix.”

Ivy’s eyes soften as she wraps her arms around me, pulling me into a fierce embrace that feels like coming home. Her lips brush against my ear, sending shivers down my spine.

“Nick,” she murmurs, her accent thickening with emotion, “you’d be worth any scandal. Every headline, every fine, every controversy, I’d weather it all gladly if it meant keeping you.”