The iClub
Copyright© 2026 by Caroline Stanton
Chapter 11
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 11 - Four girls are tired of dating immature boys, so they decide to try something different. A random suggestion gives them the ideal candidates: Their own fathers. This is a long story, about 150k words and 40 chapters.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft
GEMMA
Paul’s throat moved. He looked toward the stairs, then back at her. “Does Sophie know you’re here?”
Gemma hesitated.
There it was. Small, but enough.
Paul’s expression hardened. “Jesus!”
“She knows I like you.”
“Like me.”
“Yes.”
“Did she send you?”
“No.”
“Did she think this would be funny?”
“No.” Gemma’s answer came fast, fierce enough to cut through the room. “No. Sophie would never laugh at you.”
He wanted to reject that, but he couldn’t. Sophie could be reckless. She could be arrogant in that bright, young-adult way, thinking intention could erase consequence. But cruel to him? No. Not Sophie.
Gemma saw the thought settle. “She worries about you.”
“That is not a defence.”
“I know.”
“I’m not using her as permission.”
“Then don’t bring her into this.”
“You asked.”
He hated that she was right.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The house seemed to fill the silence for them: Sophie’s shoes by the stairs, Gemma’s bag near the couch, Paul standing between the two like a man trying to keep apart things that had already touched.
At last, he said, “You said you picked me because I’m safe.”
“Careful,” Gemma corrected. “Not safe like boring. Careful like you’re actually there. You’d notice if I got scared. You’d stop. You’d probably ask if I was okay so many times I’d threaten to smother you with a pillow, but you’d stop.”
Paul stared at her.
“What?” she asked. “Too much?”
“A little.”
“I’m nervous.”
“I noticed.”
“Great. So we’re both noticing things.”
He almost smiled again and hated that she could pull it out of him. Then the weight of the situation came back, heavier because for a second he had forgotten to hold it.
“You should not be here.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I know it, and it keeps not changing the rest.”
“What rest?”
Gemma looked at him, and this time there was no joke in her face. “I want you.”
The words went through him with awful precision. Paul turned away first. “You think wanting me makes sense?”
“Yes.”
He gave a bitter little smile and gestured down at himself. “Look at me. Bald. Belly. Old work shirt. Glue. Very seductive.”
Gemma’s eyes dropped over him, and when they came back up, there was heat in them, enough heat that his hand flexed at his side before he could stop it.
“Yeah,” she said.
His face tightened. “Don’t.”
“I’m serious.”
“You don’t have to flatter me.”
“I’m not flattering you. I’m trying very hard not to say something embarrassing.”
He should not have asked. He knew that. But the silence asked for him.
“What?”
Gemma closed her eyes for half a second like she regretted every choice that had brought her here. Then she opened them and said, “I like your stomach.”
SOPHIE
That landed harder than any speech could have.
For one second, Phil looked completely blank.
She almost laughed—nerves, and the shock of finally knocking him speechless. “You’re hot. Bossy. Impossible. You smell like motor oil, and I still spent twenty minutes picking this top.”
His eyes dropped for half a second. It was enough.
Sophie’s breath caught, and Phil’s jaw tightened like he hated that she had noticed him noticing.
“Get in your car,” he said.
“No.”
“Sophie.”
“No. I didn’t come here to talk forever. I came because I want you. I want your hands on me. I want you to stop acting like this is all in my head when you know it isn’t.”
His hand still gripped the workbench. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I’m asking you to let me in.”
“No. You’re asking me to forget who you are.”
“No,” she said, faster now. “I’m asking you to remember I’m not fourteen anymore.”
That hit him. She saw it.
The garage went quiet except for the fluorescent hum above them and the faint ticking of the engine cooling under the open hood.
MIA
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Her pulse was back in her throat doing that thing again where it made thinking difficult.
Just say it. Just—
“I need to tell you something,” she said. “And I need you to not ... I need you to just listen. Okay?”
Mike went very still. The kitchen felt smaller suddenly. Warmer. The overhead light too bright.
“Okay,” he said carefully.
Mia looked down at her mug. The tea was still too hot. Steam rose in thin wisps that disappeared before reaching the overhead light.
“I’m tired of boys,” she said.
The silence that followed felt like something physical. Mike didn’t move.
“I mean—sixth form boys specifically. University boys. The ones Jess and Sophie and I have been...” She stopped. Regrouped. This wasn’t going how she’d planned. “They’re useless. All of them.”
Mike shifted in his seat. “Mia—”
“No, I mean it. They’re selfish. They don’t listen. They don’t care about—” She gestured vaguely, searching for the right word. “Anything except themselves. Getting off. Whatever. It’s all performance for them. Something they can brag about to their mates.”
Mike’s face had done something complicated. Gone slightly pink around the ears. He wasn’t looking at her anymore. His eyes had fixed on a point somewhere past her shoulder.
“I’m not sure you should be—”
“Charlie Thompson spent twenty minutes going on about his technique.” Mia kept going because stopping now would be worse than continuing. “Like he’d invented sex. Like I should be grateful. Didn’t ask me a single question the entire time. Not one.”
“Mia.” Mike’s voice had gone strained. Uncomfortable. “Should you really be telling me this?”
“Who else am I supposed to tell?”
“Your dad? Your friends?”
“Dad would panic and want to have a conversation about self-respect. The other girls have the same problem.” Mia finally looked up at him properly. “I’m not picking idiots. They’re all idiots.”
Mike rubbed his hand over his face. “I don’t think—look, I’m sure there are decent lads out there. You just haven’t—”
“Found the right one?” Mia couldn’t keep the edge out of her voice. “That’s what everyone says. Like there’s some mythical eighteen-year-old boy out there who’s mature and thoughtful and actually gives a shit about whether I’m enjoying myself.”
“Language.”
“You swear all the time.”
“I’m forty-one. Different rules.” But he said it automatically, like his brain was working on something else entirely. His fingers had started tapping against the side of his mug. Nervous energy looking for somewhere to go.
Mia pressed on. “I’m saying that I want a sex life. I really do. A healthy one. But I need—” She paused. This was the important bit. The bit that mattered. “I need someone who’s trustworthy. Respectful. Safe.”
The tapping stopped.
GEMMA
Paul went rigid.
“I know,” she said quickly. “That was the embarrassing thing.”
“Gemma.”
“No, listen. I like it. I like that you’re solid. I like how you feel when I hug you after games. I like that you go completely frozen like I’ve just handed you a bomb. I like that you don’t look like some guy from school who thinks having abs is a personality.” Her cheeks were bright now, but she kept going, stubborn and mortified and somehow more dangerous because of both. “And yes, I have been thinking disrespectful thoughts about it for weeks.”
Paul stared at her. “You’ve been thinking about my stomach.”
“Among other things.”
“Gemma...”
“I know. I know.” She rubbed one hand over her face. “This is why I should not be allowed to improvise.”
The laugh escaped him before he could stop it, short and disbelieving and almost pained.
Gemma looked up, triumphant for half a second. “There.”
“This is not funny.”
“No,” she said. “But if you keep looking like you’re waiting for a judge to sentence you, I’m going to panic.”
That sobered him.
She stepped closer, then stopped when his body went tense. “I’m scared too, okay? Not scared of you. Scared because this is huge and weird and I can hear myself talking and somehow I keep making it worse. But I still want to be here.”
Paul’s jaw tightened. “If I tell you to leave, you leave. No argument. No crying to make me feel like a monster. No making me comfort you because I did the right thing.”
A flicker of hurt crossed her face, quickly hidden. “I won’t do that. I said I’ll leave.”
He believed her, and that was the trouble. If he thought she was manipulating him, he could send her out. If he thought she was playing, he could hate her. But she was standing in front of him, nervous and flushed and ridiculous and honest enough to make every refusal harder.
Gemma lifted her chin. “Ask me.”
“Ask you what?”
“All the things you’re trying to turn into reasons to panic.”
“That’s a long list.”
“I figured.”
He drew a slow breath, hating how badly he needed the answers. “Are you safe here?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to be here?”
“Yes.”
“With me?”
“With you.”
“Not because of a bet.”
“No.”
“Not because you feel sorry for me.”
“No.”
“Not because Sophie made space for it.”
“No.” Gemma stepped close enough that he could smell her shampoo. “Sophie being gone gave me the chance. That’s all.”
Gemma watched his eyes stay fixed on her face, like looking anywhere else would make him guilty of something.
Then she reached for the zipper of her hoodie.
Paul’s body went still before his mind could tell it not to. “Gemma.”
“I know,” she said, but she did not stop. She pulled the zipper down the rest of the way and shrugged the hoodie off her shoulders, folding it over the back of the couch with exaggerated care because her hands were not as steady as she wanted them to be.
Under it, the uniform looked softer than it had on the porch, close to her skin, showing the shape of her shoulders and the slight rise and fall of her breathing. Her skirt sat low on her hips, and her bare legs caught the lamplight when she stepped back in front of him.
Paul looked away.
Gemma smiled, nervous but stubborn. “Wow. Rude.”
His eyes snapped back to hers. “What?”
“I spent, like, forty minutes getting ready, and you’re staring at the lamp.”
“That is not what I’m doing.”
“It is exactly what you’re doing.” Her cheeks were pink now, but she lifted her chin anyway. “You can look at me.”
“Gemma...”
“I want you to look at me.” The words came quieter than the joke, and that made them land harder. “Not like you’re doing something wrong. Just ... look.”
Paul swallowed. He should not have. He did.
His eyes moved over her carefully, almost reluctantly at first, as if he expected her to laugh the second he let himself believe she meant it. She did not laugh. She stood there and let him see what she had brought to his door on purpose: clean hair, soft skin, bare legs, a mouth that kept almost smiling because she was scared and excited and trying to be brave all at once.
When his gaze came back to her face, her smile had gone smaller.
“See?” she said. “No punchline.”
He did not trust his voice.
Gemma stepped closer and took his hand. For a second, she only held it, her fingers warm around his. Then she placed his palm at her waist, over the fabric of her shell.
Paul froze.
She kept her hand over his, not forcing him, just keeping him there long enough for the permission to be clear.
“I’m nervous,” she admitted. “But not because I don’t want this.”
His fingers tightened slightly, careful despite the way his pulse was beating too hard.
Gemma’s eyes softened. “That’s better.”
“What is?”
“You touching me like you believe I asked.”
The sentence went through him worse than any teasing could have. He looked down at his hand at her waist, then back at her, and she answered by placing her own hand on him, warm against the soft curve of his stomach through the old work shirt.
Not accidental.
Not a joke.
Paul’s breath caught.
Gemma did not grin this time. She looked up at him with her cheeks flushed and her hand steady where he least expected anyone to want it.
“I meant what I said,” she whispered. “I like this part too.”
He closed his eyes for half a second, like the words hurt.
When he opened them, she was still there. Still touching him. Still letting him touch her.
And for the first time since he had opened the door, Paul looked like he almost believed her.
MIA
The kitchen felt very small suddenly. Mike’s eyes had come back to her face, but there was something different in them now. Something wary and careful and almost frightened.
“Mia.” His voice had gone quiet. Flat. “What are you asking me?”
Her pulse hammered in her ears. She could feel sweat prickling at the base of her spine despite the warmth of the kitchen. This was it. The moment where everything either worked or collapsed completely.
“I’m not asking anything yet. I’m just—explaining.”
“Explaining what?”
“Why I’m here.”
Mike stood up. The chair scraped loud against the floor. He moved to the sink and set his mug down with deliberate care, like he needed to concentrate very hard on not breaking it. His back was to her again. The line of his shoulders had gone rigid.
“I think maybe you should go home,” he said. Not looking at her. Not moving.
“Please don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Tell me to leave before you’ve heard what I want to say.”
“I’ve heard enough.” But he still wasn’t moving. Just standing there with his hands braced against the counter edge, staring at the tiles.
“You haven’t.” Mia’s voice came out steadier than she felt. “You’ve guessed. But you haven’t actually heard it.”
“Mia—”
“Just listen. Please. That’s all I’m asking. Just ... listen to me.”
A long, awful silence stretched between them. Mia could hear the hum of the fridge. The distant sound of a car passing on the street outside. Her own breathing, too fast and too shallow.
Mike drew a slow breath before turning to face her. Embarrassment warred with something darker on his face, something that looked dangerously close to panic.
“You’re eighteen,” he said quietly.
Mia nodded. “I know.”
His gaze held hers for a moment before drifting towards the hallway, where the overnight bag still rested by the stairs.
“You’re Jess’s best friend.”
“I know that too.”
He closed his eyes briefly, as though searching for words that refused to come. When he looked at her again, the strain was obvious.
“Then you know how completely impossible this is.” His hand lifted in a helpless gesture towards the bag. “You can’t be here like this. What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking,” Mia said carefully, “that you’re actually trustworthy. You’re kind. You treat people with respect. You wouldn’t—”
“Stop.” Mike held up a hand. “Just stop. Please.”
Mia took another step, stopping just outside his reach.
“I’m not some kid with a crush.”
Mike shook his head almost immediately. “You’re Jess’s age.”
She searched his face. “So?”
The question seemed to catch him off guard. He let out a frustrated breath and dragged a hand through his hair before answering.
“So this is insane. You do realise that, don’t you? Whatever this is ... it’s completely mental.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.” But he said it too quickly. Too firmly. Like he was trying to convince himself as much as her.
Mia stood up. Mike went still again, watching her like she was something dangerous that might bolt or attack without warning. She took a step toward him. Then another.
“I’m not asking you to decide anything right now,” she said. “I’m just asking you to listen. To think about it. To not—” She stopped an arm’s length away from him. Close enough to see the muscle working in his jaw. The way his hands had curled into fists at his sides. “To not shut me down before you’ve actually considered what I’m saying.”
“There’s nothing to consider.”
“Isn’t there?”
Mike’s eyes dropped. Not to her face. Lower. Just for a second—barely long enough to register—before he caught himself and looked away entirely, focusing on the wall behind her.
“You should go home,” he said again. But his voice had lost some of its certainty. Gone quieter. Almost defeated.
“I don’t want to go home.”
“Mia—”
“I want to stay here. I want to talk to you properly. I want—” She stopped. This was harder than she’d thought it would be. Standing here. Watching him not look at her. Seeing the way his whole body had gone tense like he was fighting something. “I want you to be honest with me.”
“I am being honest.”
“No you’re not. You’re panicking. There’s a difference.”
Mike let out a sharp breath that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so strained. “Course I’m bloody panicking. You’ve turned up at my house with an overnight bag talking about—” He stopped. Shook his head. “What did you expect? That I’d just—what? Agree? Say sure, why not, come upstairs?”
“I expected you to listen.”
“I am listening.”
“No. You’re reacting. That’s different.” Mia held her ground. Kept her voice level even though her heart was trying to climb out of her chest. “I’ve thought about this. A lot. I know what I’m asking. I know how it sounds. But I’m not being impulsive and I’m not confused and I’m not going to change my mind tomorrow and decide you took advantage.”
Mike’s jaw tightened. “You can’t know that.”
“Yes I can.”
“You’re eighteen.”
“You’ve said that already.”
“Because it matters.”
“Why? Because of some arbitrary number? Because society says—”
“Because you’re a kid.” But even as he said it, his eyes flicked back to her face. Held there for a moment too long.
“Do I look like a kid to you?”
“That’s not—” Mike stopped. His hands uncurled slightly, then clenched again. “That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
Mike exhaled slowly. “The point is that this can’t happen. Not with you. Not with anyone Jess knows. Not—” He gestured helplessly at the space between them. “Not like this.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m her father.”
“So? She’s not here now.”
“Christ.” Mike’s hand went to his face, rubbing hard at his temples like he was developing a headache. “That’s not how this works. You can’t just—I’d be a middle-aged creep who slept with his daughter’s teenage friend. That’s what I’d be.”
“You’re not a creep.” Mia kept her voice steady. Logical. This was the bit she’d rehearsed most carefully. “You haven’t pursued me. You haven’t groomed me. I came here. I’m the one asking. You’re the one trying to say no.”
Mike shook his head. “You’re eighteen—”
“Stop saying that like it means I don’t know my own mind.” The frustration leaked into her voice despite her efforts. “I’m not confused. I’m not vulnerable. I’m not going to wake up in six months and realise I was manipulated. I’m here because I want to be here. Because I’ve thought about this and I know exactly what I’m asking for.”
“Which is what?” Mike’s eyes were back on her face now. Direct. Demanding honesty. “What exactly are you asking for?”
This was it. The moment she had to say it plainly. Mia drew a breath.
JESS
John looked at her—really looked at her—and saw not Mia’s friend, not a student, but a young woman who had walked into his house with a proposition and the confidence to see it through. Her feet were still bare, toes curling slightly into the carpet, and he made himself look away again.
“This is insane,” he said quietly.
“Maybe,” Jess said. “But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”
The silence stretched between them, heavy and charged. John could hear the clock ticking on the mantelpiece, the distant hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. His tea had gone cold in the other room.
“If we did this,” he said slowly, testing the words, “there would have to be rules.”
Jess’s mouth curved into a small, satisfied smile. “I’m listening.”
“No,” John said, the word coming out sharper than before. He stood up from the armchair, putting more distance between them. “No, this is—I can’t. You should go.”