The Iclub
Copyright© 2026 by Caroline Stanton
Chapter 1
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Four girls are tired of dating immature boys, so they decide to try something different. A random suggestion gives them the ideal candidates: Their parents.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft
The nail polish bottle rolled off the cafeteria table for the third time, landing with a plastic clack on the linoleum floor. Gemma sighed dramatically, stretching her legs under the table as she leaned down to retrieve it—again. “Honestly, whose idea was it to do our nails in this bloody wind tunnel?” she grumbled, flicking her blonde ponytail over one shoulder.
Opposite her, Sophie—ever the problem-solver—immediately wedged her half-finished yogurt pot under the wobbly table leg to stabilize it. “There,” she said, triumphant. “Now stop whining and paint mine before lunch ends. I want midnight blue, not that tacky glitter shit you’re putting on Mia.”
Mia stuck her tongue out, blowing a bubble with her gum. “Glitter is classy,” she insisted, examining her half-painted nails. “Besides, it matches my eyeliner. Unlike some people who still think skinny jeans are cool.” She shot a pointed look at Jess, who hadn’t said much yet. She was chewing absently on a straw, her gaze drifting over the courtyard where their classmates milled about.
“God, I’m so sick of boys our age,” Mia announced. “They’re either glued to their phones or trying way too hard to act like they’ve got everything figured out.”
Sophie snorted. “Like Jason Keller ‘figuring out’ how to unhook a bra strap counts as a personality.”
Jess tossed her phone aside. “Okay, but what if we just ... didn’t bother with guys our age?” Her voice dropped, conspiratorial. “What if we went for older guys? Like, actual grown-ups who know how to treat someone.”
Sophie flicked her freshly painted nail, grinning. “Older guys? You mean like teachers?” She wrinkled her nose. “Too risky. And most of them look like they haven’t seen a gym since the 90s.”
Gemma leaned on the table, propping her chin on her hands. “Okay, geniuses, let’s brainstorm. Who do we actually know that’s older, safe, and not gross?”
“Our dads,” Jess concluded.
“Holy shit” Mia blurted.
“You’re joking,” Sophie said.
Gemma’s pulse kicked up, but she kept her voice steady. “Are you including your own dad in that?”
Jess leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Okay, hear me out—what if we started, like ... a club a club where we fuck our dads?” The words hung there, sharp and glittering like the nail polish Mia was admiring. For a second, nobody moved—Sophie’s yogurt pot wobbled, Gemma’s polish brush dripped midnight blue onto the table.
Mia popped her gum bubble so hard it snapped. “Oh my God,” she whispered, leaning in so fast her elbow nearly knocked over Gemma’s water bottle. “You mean like—all of us? Together? With each other’s dads?” Her voice climbed an octave on the last word, half scandalized, half thrilled.
Jess’s grin widened as she watched their reactions, her fingers drumming against the table with the energy of someone who’d been sitting on this idea for weeks. “Think about it,” she said, voice hushed but buzzing with excitement. “All our dads are single—mine’s been alone since Mum died when I was eight. Gemma’s dad hasn’t dated since forever, Sophie’s dad turned down that nurse last Christmas—”
“And my dad still sleeps with Mum’s old jumper,” Mia interrupted, wrinkling her nose. “But ew, what’s that got to do with—”
“Because,” Jess pressed, leaning in so far her chest nearly brushed the table, “they’ve spent years just ... looking after us. No girlfriends, no nights out, just work and school runs and pretending not to notice when we prance around in bikinis.” She paused, letting the words settle like glitter in nail polish. “Gem, remember when your dad tripped carrying laundry because you were doing yoga in shorts? And Soph—your dad literally walked into a door when you came downstairs in that crop top last summer.”
Sophie’s cheeks pinked, her fingers nervously twisting the hem of her skirt. “He said it was because he was distracted by the football scores...”
Mia snorted, popping another bubble. “Bollocks. My dad still pretends to read the paper when I’m in my swimsuit. He just holds it upside down half the time.” She rolled her eyes, but there was a flicker of something else in her voice—a curiosity, maybe, or the faintest edge of pride.
Gemma was the first to say it out loud. “Yeah, but—Sophie’s dad, though.” She winced even as the words left her mouth, like she was bracing for a slap. Across the table, Sophie stiffened, her fingers curling into her skirt.
Jess kicked Gemma under the table—too late. The silence that followed was thick enough to spread on toast. Sophie’s face went from pink to scarlet in three seconds flat.
“You can’t just leave him out!” she hissed, voice cracking like a whip. The yogurt pot under the table leg shot out from the force, sending Gemma’s polish bottle rolling again, but Sophie didn’t even glance down. Her hands were fists now, knuckles white against her skirt. “This isn’t some fucking hot or not list—he’s my dad!”
Jess reached out, fingers circling Sophie’s wrist like a handcuff loosening. “No one’s leaving anyone out,” she said, calm but firm. Her thumb brushed over the frantic pulse in Sophie’s wrist. “That’s not how this works. We’re all in—properly. No cuts.” She shot a glare at Gemma, who had the decency to look sheepish as she retrieved her phone.
Mia, ever the tactful one, blew a bubble and let it pop obnoxiously. “Mate, if we’re gonna do this, we’re doing it right. No one gets dumped like last year’s netball team.” She flicked a speck of glitter off her nail. “Besides, think about it—Soph’s dad’s got that whole ... dad bod thing going. Some people are into that. Like, properly.”
The bell rang, cutting through the tension like a pair of nail scissors through wet tissue paper. Jess snatched her bag off the floor, tossing her hair back with the practiced ease of someone who’d spent years avoiding commitment. “Right. Sleep on it,” she said, like it was a decree. “No rash decisions. We’ll meet at the lockers tomorrow—no chickening out.”
Gemma made a face, blowing on her still-tacky nails. “And if we do chicken out?”
Jess grinned, sharp as a stiletto. “Then you’re officially banned from borrowing my eyeliner forever.” The threat landed heavier than any swearword. Mia gasped dramatically, clutching her chest like she’d been shot, while Lauren snorted into her textbook.
Sophie didn’t laugh. She just nodded, her fingers worrying the frayed edge of her skirt as she watched the others scatter. The walk home was fifteen minutes of pavement and second-guessing, her mind spinning like a washing machine stuck on rinse cycle. Her house—a redbrick semi with a stubbornly crooked garden gate—loomed at the end of the street like an unopened exam result.
The smell of burnt toast hit her the second she opened the front door. Classic Dad. Sophie toed off her trainers, listening to the familiar clatter of pans from the kitchen. “You’re supposed to turn the dial down after two minutes,” she called, dumping her bag on the stairs.
Sophie lingered in the kitchen doorway, watching her dad scrape charcoal off toast with the enthusiasm of a man performing open-heart surgery. His polo shirt strained slightly at the middle button—not enough to pop, but enough to betray years of hurried meals eaten standing up. She chewed her lip. He’s just ... Dad, she thought. Not ugly, not fit. Just there, like the perpetually squeaky stair or the kettle that only boiled properly if you wiggled the cord.
“Oi, stop judging,” he said without looking up, waving the blackened knife at her. “This is artisanal carbon.”
She snorted, sliding onto the counter beside the microwave—her usual perch. “More like arson.” He flicked a crumb at her, and she dodged, grinning. Then, before she could chicken out: “So. Hypothetically. If my friends were, like ... available. Who’d you fancy?”
The knife froze mid-scrape. Her dad blinked at her like she’d just asked him to solve a quadratic equation in Swahili. “Sorry?”
“You know.” Sophie swung her legs, toes brushing the cupboard door. “Gemma’s got that whole blonde-cheerleader vibe. Jess’s basically a TikTok filter come to life. Mia’s got the—” She mimed an exaggerated hourglass shape with her hands.