The iClub
Copyright© 2026 by Caroline Stanton
Chapter 14
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 14 - 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
Paul did not move at first, and neither did Gemma.
For a while they just lay beside each other in the dim bedroom, breathing hard in the warm, ridiculous silence that came after neither of them had anything left to argue with. The lamp on his chest of drawers was the only light, soft and yellow. His bed was a mess. His shirt was somewhere near the chair. Gemma’s hair was spread across his pillow like she had always had a right to be there, and the thought should have scared him more than it did. It did scare him, but under that fear was something bright and stupid and almost boyish, a rush of disbelief so sharp it nearly felt like joy.
He had wanted her. He had tried not to. He had failed. And now she was here, warm beside him, not running, not crying, not looking at him like he had ruined anything. That was the part his conscience could not handle.
Paul knew what he should do. He should sit up. He should cover himself. He should apologise, explain, overthink, maybe go stand outside in the cold until he became a better person. Any of those seemed more responsible than lying there with one arm still half around Gemma, his hand resting awkwardly at her side because now that everything had happened, he had somehow forgotten whether touching her was still allowed.
Gemma noticed. Of course she noticed. Her mouth curved against the pillow, and she let out a small, breathless laugh. Paul turned his head. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That was not a nothing laugh.”
“It was a ‘you look like you’re waiting for sirens’ laugh.”
He closed his eyes. “That is not helpful.”
“It is a little helpful.” She rolled onto her side to face him, cheeks flushed, hair messy, eyes bright in a way that made his chest tighten for several different reasons at once. “At least now you know you’re alive.”
“I had other ways to confirm that.”
“None as convincing.”
He opened one eye and looked at her. She grinned, and the grin steadied him more than any careful reassurance could have. She was not upset. She was not staring at the ceiling in horror. She looked pleased, smug, and a little dazed, which under the circumstances was probably the kindest thing she could have been.
“You’re okay?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“Paul.” She pushed herself up on one elbow. “I’m okay. I wanted to be here. I wanted you. I know where the door is. I am not secretly regretting everything because I got exactly what I came here for.”
He stared at her. She made a face. “Okay. That sounded less weird in my head.”
“A little.”
“But you know what I mean.”
“I think so.”
“Good. Then stop looking like you’re about to draft a formal apology.”
Despite himself, he huffed a laugh. “A formal apology?”
“You absolutely would. You’d use bullet points. ‘Item one: I regret to inform you that I enjoyed myself too much—’”
“Stop.” He caught her hand before she could continue, and she smiled when he did. The contact made him tense, but not enough to make him let go.
“There he is,” she said.
“Who?”
“The man who isn’t ruining this yet.”
“That’s a low bar.”
“It’s an important bar.”
He looked at her, at the messy confidence she was somehow still wearing after everything. “You’re very casual about this.”
“No, I’m not.” Her smile softened. “I’m just not letting you turn my very good night into a crime documentary.”
“That was not what I was doing.”
“Your face was halfway through episode one.”
He laughed, short and helpless, and the room loosened around them. Not completely—Paul apparently came with guilt, doubts and a whole committee of internal objections—but Gemma was not giving the committee bed space.
He looked away, then back at her. “Gemma, I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“I shouldn’t feel...” He stopped, because the word happy was suddenly too embarrassing and too damning to say out loud.
Gemma’s expression softened. “You shouldn’t feel what?”
He swallowed. “Good.”
For once, she did not joke immediately. Paul looked at the ceiling because her face was too much. “I should feel guilty.”
“You do.”
“I should feel more guilty.”
“Wow. Ambitious.”
“Gemma...”
“I’m not making fun of you. Well, not much.” She shifted closer. “You feel guilty. Fine. But you’re also allowed to feel good because I wanted to be here.” Her voice gentled. “You being happy doesn’t make you awful.”
The words hit him harder than he expected. He had not known he needed exactly that sentence until she said it. He let out a breath that did not quite become relief, because relief still felt too dangerous, but it moved something in him.
Another thought arrived, quieter but no less dangerous. “Gemma, I don’t know what you think this is now.”
She blinked. “Now?”
“After this.”
“Oh.” Her mouth twitched. “Please don’t panic. I’m not asking you to be my boyfriend.”
“That was not my exact concern.”
“It was somewhere in the building.”
Paul closed his eyes. “Fine. Somewhere in the car park.”
Gemma shifted closer and rested her hand lightly on his chest. “I liked this. A lot. Like, embarrassing amount.”
His breathing changed.
“And I want it again.”
He looked at her. “Again?”
“Again.” Her thumb moved once against his chest. “Because I want you, Paul. Not because I’m trying to turn you into something else. Not because tonight was some experiment I needed to get out of my system. I want to come back.”
Paul searched her face, apparently still waiting for the qualification. “You mean that?”
“Yes.” Gemma held his gaze. “I came here because I wanted you. If I come back, it’ll be because I still want you. That’s really not as complicated as you’re trying to make it.”
He swallowed. “I can make almost anything complicated.”
“I noticed.” She patted his chest. “So don’t start planning the wedding.”
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it.
“There,” she said. “Much better.”
He shook his head, but some of the pressure in his chest had eased. Not gone. Nothing was gone. But there was one thing he was beginning to run out of ways to argue with. Gemma had come to his house because she wanted him. She had stayed because she wanted him. And apparently she intended to come back for the same reason. It wasn’t love, and she wasn’t asking him to make it love. Strangely, that made believing her easier.
Gemma slipped her hand from his chest and rested it on his stomach, warm and unembarrassed, directly over the part of himself he still wanted to hide even after everything she had already seen. He stiffened.
“Still?” she asked.
“I’m not used to it.”
“To being touched?”
“To being touched there like it’s not a problem.”
“It’s not a problem.” She patted him lightly. “It is, tragically for your self-esteem, one of your better parts.”
He stared at her. “You said you wanted honesty.”
“I did not know honesty was going to be this aggressive.”
“I’m a cheerleader. We project.”
He laughed, properly this time, and Gemma looked so delighted that something shifted in his chest. He did not know what to call it and did not want to try. Naming things seemed dangerous. Laughing seemed safer.
Gemma asked for water like she had not just dismantled his entire understanding of himself. When he got up to bring it to her, she stole most of the sheet and denied it with such obvious guilt that he called her a menace. When he returned, she drank half the glass and handed it back.
“See? Responsible.”
“You’re in my bed.”
“Hydrated in your bed.”
“That is not the defence you think it is.”
“It is exactly the defence I think it is.”
He set the glass down and sat beside her. The old shame stirred when she looked at him, but it had less room now. She had seen him. She had touched the parts of him he had spent years treating as evidence against himself and behaved as though there was nothing to forgive. The voice in his head that called him ridiculous was still there. It simply had less evidence than it had yesterday.
Gemma leaned against his side with a satisfied sigh. “You’re comfortable.”
“I’m forty.”
“Still comfortable.”
“You keep saying that like it’s a compliment.”
“It is when I say it.” She rested her cheek against him, and when his hand settled in her hair, she hummed softly. “See? You’re learning.”
“I’m not sure what class this is.”
“Advanced Not Panicking.”
“I am failing.”
“You’re passing with extra credit for water.”
He shook his head, but his hand stayed in her hair because he wanted it there. The remorse had not disappeared, but neither had the happiness. Apparently both could occupy the same bed.
“You’re going to think too much,” she murmured.
“Probably.”
“Try not to make it ugly.”
“That’s your advice?”
“For now. Later I’ll be in class, so your tragic inner courtroom will have to continue without me.”
That was easier somehow. She was not asking him to turn the night into forever, and she was not pretending it had meant nothing either. She was asking him not to poison it before morning.
The night did not end all at once. They drifted in and out of sleep, waking when one of them moved or Gemma laughed softly against his shoulder. Gradually Paul stopped feeling as though every quiet moment required an apology. Eventually even his guilt seemed too tired to keep arguing.
Sometime before dawn, Gemma settled half on top of him, her head resting against the soft curve of his stomach and one arm thrown lazily across his waist. Paul stared down at her.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” he murmured.
Her eyes stayed closed. “Doing what?”
“That.”
A faint smile touched her mouth. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because I like it.”
He stared at the ceiling. “You’re impossible.”
“No. I’m comfortable.”
“With my stomach?”
“With you.”
The answer was so simple that it reached him before he could defend against it. He put one hand into her hair, more certain now. “You really don’t mind?”
Gemma opened her eyes. The room had begun to pale around the edges. “Paul, I didn’t come here because I was willing to ignore the things I don’t like about you.” She gave his stomach a small squeeze. “I came because I like you. Including this.”
He looked away because that was easier than letting her see what the words did to him. She lowered her head again and patted his stomach.
“Also, you’re a really good pillow.”
“That is not the compliment you think it is.”
“It is exactly the compliment I think it is.”
His hand stayed in her hair until sleep took them both again.
Morning arrived without drama, which somehow made it worse and better at the same time. There was no door opening downstairs, no Sophie calling out, no sudden scramble for clothes. Sophie was at Jess’s for the study sleepover and would not be back until later. There was only pale light at the curtains and Gemma reaching for her phone on the bedside table.
She checked the time and made a small, wounded sound. “Rude.”
“What?”
“Time. Existing.”
“You have somewhere to be?”
“Class at eight.”
Of course. Class. A normal day. Gemma had lectures, coffee, friends, assignments and a life that continued outside his house and outside his bed. The night had happened before a weekday, before traffic, before she had to shower and change and become an ordinary student again.
“Right,” Paul said.
Gemma looked at him. “I’m not sneaking out.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You looked like you thought it.”
“I looked?”
“You have a very loud face.”
He almost denied it, then decided he was too exposed in too many ways to start lying about his face.
Gemma sat up and reached for his old grey shirt from the foot of the bed, the one he used for sanding because it was already ruined. Watching her pull it on made something in him ache in a way he did not want to name. It was not romance, exactly, and it was not innocence. It was the sight of her in his ordinary life, borrowing a piece of it for a few minutes before she left.
“Sophie is at Jess’s,” Paul said, mostly to remind himself the house was safe from interruption.
Gemma looked down for half a second. “Right.”
He noticed the pause but didn’t chase it. She wrinkled her nose. “This shirt smells like wood dust.”
“It’s a work shirt.”
“I like it.”
“You like everything I’m self-conscious about. It’s becoming suspicious.”
“That’s because your self-consciousness has terrible taste.”
This time Paul didn’t argue.
She climbed out of bed and started gathering her clothes without panic or shame. That practicality made everything feel more real. A fantasy would have disappeared before daylight. Gemma checked her phone battery, found one sock under the chair, muttered about traffic and searched the bed for her hair tie. Paul found it near his pillow and held it out to her.
She came over and took it from him, but instead of stepping away, she stood between his knees where he sat on the edge of the bed. Daylight made him conscious of himself again: stomach, chest, bald head, the whole unedited version of the man she had seen the night before.
Gemma noticed.
“Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to think loudly.”
Paul opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Gemma smiled. “Look at that. Progress.”
She ran her fingers briefly over the top of his head, then down the side of his face. “I have to go.”
“Class?”
“Class. Traffic. The tedious obligations of civilisation.” She glanced down at the work shirt. “I’ll give this back next time.”
Paul looked at her. “Next time.”
It wasn’t quite a question.
Gemma smiled anyway. “Yes, Paul. Next time.”
Something warm moved through him before he could stop it. “Right.”
“Try to keep up.”
“And if I stay here another ten minutes, I’m going to make extremely irresponsible academic choices.”
“That sounds like something I should discourage.”
“You should. Convincingly.”
He failed. When she kissed him, his hands found her waist before he had time to question whether they should. Gemma broke away with a breathless laugh.
“Class.”
“Right.”
“Also, you are extremely distracting for a man who thinks he isn’t.”
Paul opened his mouth to argue. Then he didn’t.
Gemma’s smile widened. “More progress.”
Downstairs, the house looked almost normal. Shoes by the stairs, dishes in the sink, morning light across the floorboards. Paul made coffee while Gemma stole a piece of toast from his plate and checked the time twice. For several minutes they talked about traffic, her class and whether the shirt was genuinely being returned. It was absurdly ordinary.
The woman who had told him she wanted him was standing in his kitchen eating his toast and talking about coming back. For once, Paul let those facts mean exactly what they appeared to mean.
At the front door, she paused with her hand on the knob and looked back at him. She wasn’t embarrassed, triumphant or suddenly transformed into someone else. She was simply Gemma, dressed for class, bag over her shoulder, wearing the same expression that had spent most of the night telling him he was an idiot.
“You won’t make it ugly in your head, right?” she asked.
Paul considered lying. “I’ll try.”
“That is the most Paul answer possible.”
“I’m starting to think you use my name as an adjective too much.”
“I had a long night to study the subject.”
He laughed, and this time there was very little effort involved.
Then her expression softened. “And Paul?”
“Yeah?”
“No one is laughing at you.”
The words struck deeper than he wanted them to. He looked at her for a moment, and for once he didn’t search her expression for the joke. There wasn’t one.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
Gemma gave him a small smile, stepped out into the morning and headed down the walk with her bag on her shoulder. She did not look back. He was grateful for that and disappointed by it at the same time.