The iClub
Copyright© 2026 by Caroline Stanton
Chapter 15
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 15 - 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
SOPHIE
Sophie should have made a joke. She had three lined up, actually. One about luxury service, one about towel-based authority, one about whether he charged extra for this. None of them made it out, because he was holding the towel like this mattered, and suddenly she wanted to let it matter.
So she nodded.
Phil wrapped the towel around her shoulders first, drawing the warmth around her, then began drying her with that same serious focus. He pressed the towel along her arms, her back, and her hair, careful without being fussy. He looked almost stern about it, like drying her properly was now his responsibility and he was not going to tolerate poor workmanship.
Sophie watched him, biting back a smile.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re concentrating.”
“I’m trying not to pull your hair.”
“My hair is not an engine.”
“No. Engines make more sense.”
She laughed, and he smiled then, small but real. It stayed for half a second, maybe one, and Sophie felt like she had caught something he usually kept locked in a toolbox.
Back in the bedroom, she reached for her clothes automatically, the towel wrapped around her and her damp hair falling over one shoulder. Phil let her pick up the skirt before he spoke.
“Let me.”
She looked over her shoulder. “Let you what?”
“Dress you.”
The words changed the room all over again.
Sophie held the skirt against herself, her face heating. “Phil.”
“You can say no.”
“I know.” She looked at him, at his serious face, at the careful distance he kept even now. “I can dress myself.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
His voice stayed low. “Because I want to.”
Her breath caught.
There it was again. No poetry. No big speech. Just him wanting to take care of her in the most practical, intimate, completely devastating way possible.
Sophie tried for a joke and only managed, “You are weirdly good at making bossy sound sweet.”
“I’m not trying to sound sweet.”
“That’s why it works.”
He looked like he did not know what to do with that, which made her smile. Then she handed him the skirt.
Phil dressed her with ridiculous care. He held the skirt low so she could step into it, steadying her elbow when she wobbled and then giving her a look when she laughed.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“You nearly fell.”
“I nearly posed.”
“You nearly fell.”
“Your version is less flattering.”
He fastened the skirt, smoothed the pleats, then checked the line of it like the uniform had become a mechanical system. Sophie bit her lip to keep from laughing again because the whole thing was absurd and sweet and hotter than it had any right to be.
When he handed her the shell top, he waited while she lifted her arms, then guided the fabric down carefully so it would not catch in her damp hair. When the hem folded under, he fixed it. When the zipper resisted, he worked it loose instead of tugging.
“You’re taking this very seriously,” she said.
“I am.”
“It’s just clothes.”
“Not this morning.”
That made her quiet for a second. Then, because quiet was dangerous, she said, “If you say things like that, I’m going to start thinking you’re secretly romantic.”
“I’m not.”
“Sure.”
“I’m practical.”
“Practical romance.”
“No.”
“Too late. Named it.”
He gave her a look, but the corner of his mouth moved.
When she was dressed, he guided her to sit on the edge of the bed and picked up a bright plastic comb from the dresser. It was probably Gemma’s, and it looked hilarious in his hand.
Sophie pointed at it. “That comb has never looked more afraid.”
“It works.”
“You don’t know that.”
“It has teeth.”
She stared at him, then burst out laughing. “Please never say that to a girl again.”
“Noted.”
He stood behind her and began combing her hair. He was not good at it in a smooth, practiced way. He had to pause when the comb caught, and each time he worked the knot loose with his fingers first. He did not rush. He did not yank. He frowned at the tangles like they were badly installed parts.
Sophie watched them in the mirror: herself in uniform again, almost ready for the world, and Phil behind her, broad and serious, comb in hand, looking like he would rather rebuild an engine than admit how gentle he was being.
“My hair is winning,” she said.
“It is not.”
“You made that face at the ribbon last night too.”
“Your ribbon is badly designed.”
“It’s a ribbon.”
“It’s badly designed.”
She laughed, and his eyes flicked to hers in the mirror. For a second, neither of them looked away.
“No one’s ever done this for me,” she said before she could overthink it.
Phil’s hand paused.
“Combed your hair?”
“Not like this.”
His expression changed, softer for just a moment before he covered it with a gruff little nod. “Then hold still.”
“Bossy.”
“You move too much.”
“I am literally sitting still.”
“You think too loud.”
Sophie smiled. “You noticed?”
“I noticed a lot.”
That made her blush, which felt deeply unfair after everything they had already done.
When he finished, he tied her ribbon. Badly the first time. Better the second. Sophie did not help, partly because watching Phil Fletcher fight a cheer ribbon was a once-in-a-lifetime event and partly because being cared for like this felt too new to interrupt.
“There,” he said at last.
GEMMA
Then another thought came in, worse because it was quieter.
He looked at her again. “Gemma, I don’t know what you think this is now.”
She blinked. “Now?”
“Yes. After this.”
“Oh.” Her face softened, but only for a second before she made a small, almost offended face. “Okay, please don’t panic, but I’m not asking you to be my boyfriend.”
Despite himself, he stared at her. “That was not my exact concern.”
“It was somewhere in the building.”
“It was not.”
“Paul.”
He closed his eyes. “Fine. It may have been in the parking lot.”
Gemma smiled, then shifted closer, resting her hand lightly on his chest. “I liked this. A lot. Like, embarrassing amount.”
His breathing changed.
“And I want it again,” she said.
He looked at her.
“But I’m not pretending this is love,” she continued, more gently now. “I’m not asking you for dates or flowers or some big secret relationship where we stare sadly through windows and ruin our lives. I have class in the morning. You have bills and sawdust and whatever adult men do when they stand in garages thinking about wood.”
“Very accurate.”
“I know.” Her thumb moved once against his chest. “This was pleasure. Wanting. Us being stupid and careful at the same time.”
“That is a strange combination.”
“It worked.”
He looked at her for a long moment. “And repeating it?”
“I want that,” she said, and this time she did not joke. “But because I want you. Not because I’m trying to turn you into something else.”
Paul swallowed.
Gemma patted his chest once. “So don’t build a wedding registry in your head, okay?”
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it.
“There,” she said, pleased. “Much better.”
“You think I’m ridiculous.”
“I think you’re overqualified at panicking.”
“That’s not better.”
“It is slightly better.”
He shook his head, but some of the pressure in his chest had eased. Not gone. Nothing was gone. But she had named the thing he had been afraid of and then made it smaller. Not meaningless. Smaller. This was not love. She was not asking him to become her life. She wanted him, wanted this, wanted it again, and somehow that was both more dangerous and easier to survive.
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 before he could stop himself.
Gemma gave him a look. “Still?”
“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 once, lightly, as if he were being difficult on purpose. “It is, tragically for your self-esteem, one of your better parts.”
He stared at her.
“What?” she asked. “You said you wanted honesty.”
“I did not know honesty was going to be this aggressive.”
“I’m a cheerleader. We project.”
He laughed then, a real laugh this time, tired and reluctant, and Gemma looked so delighted by it that something in his chest shifted again. 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 then denied it with such obvious guilt that he had to call her a menace. She only smiled and said he had invited the menace inside, which was technically true and therefore irritating.
When he came back, she drank half the glass, handed it to him, and said, “See? Responsible.”
“You’re in my bed.”
“Hydrated in your bed.”
“That is not the defense you think it is.”
“It is exactly the defense I think it is.”
He set the glass down and sat beside her. The old shame tried to rise again when she looked at him, but it had less room now. She had seen him. All of him. She had not flinched in the dark, and she was not flinching now. That did not magically make him handsome. It did not make the night simple. But it made the voice in his head that called him ridiculous sound a little less certain.
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 like that had been the correct answer on a test he had not known he was taking. “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 it seemed easier than arguing and because, if he was being honest, he wanted it there. Wanting it made the remorse stir again, but the remorse did not cancel the happiness. That was the uncomfortable truth. He felt both. He felt guilty enough to ache and glad enough to hate himself for aching less whenever she smiled at him.
Gemma tipped her face up. “You’re doing it again.”
“What?”
“Making the face.”
“I have one face.”
“No, you have many faces. This one is the ‘I will now personally ruin the afterglow’ face.”
“I’m not trying to ruin anything.”
“Then don’t.”
He looked down at her. “It’s not that easy.”
JESS
When she finished, John went into the bathroom. Jess stayed but turned towards the shower while he used the toilet, giving him privacy without making a ceremony of leaving. By the time he’d washed his hands, steam was beginning to mist the glass. He reached for a towel.
‘Where are you going?’ Jess asked.
‘To give you the bathroom.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re about to have a shower.’
‘Very good.’ She caught his hand. ‘So are you.’
The invitation was so matter-of-fact that John hesitated. Last night every step towards intimacy had felt like a threshold they were consciously crossing. This didn’t. Jess simply seemed to think that since they both needed a shower and were already standing beside one, taking it together was obvious.
‘Come on.’
For half a second beneath the water John expected the closeness to acquire the charged quality of the night before. Instead Jess closed her eyes, tipped her face into the spray and pushed her hair backwards with both hands. She shuffled sideways and nudged him beneath it. ‘Your turn.’
They settled into the practical choreography of two people sharing a space designed for one, exchanging places beneath the water, borrowing shampoo and bumping elbows. When Jess’s wet hair stuck across her shoulders, John moved it aside without thinking. That small gesture caught him more than it should have. Last night every touch had carried intention. This morning he could touch Jess simply because her hair needed moving.
She glanced over her shoulder. ‘You’re doing it again.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Thinking.’
‘I can’t reasonably be expected to stop.’
‘Try.’
‘I teach literature. Thinking is virtually the entire job.’
‘You’re not at work.’
John considered that. ‘Fair point.’
Jess pushed his wet hair away from his forehead. ‘Just be here.’
So he did.
When they finished, Jess stepped out first and held a towel towards him. ‘Here.’
‘Thanks.’
She didn’t let go. John looked at her. ‘What?’
‘Dry me.’
‘You want me to dry you?’
‘That’s generally what “dry me” means.’
John had never considered drying someone an activity requiring technique. His own method involved vigorous application of a towel until he was no longer wet, but applying the same method to Jess seemed unnecessarily rough. He placed the towel across her shoulders and gently pressed rather than rubbed, working down her arms and across her back. There was nothing urgent about it. She had simply asked him to do something for her and he found himself wanting to do it carefully.
When she turned towards him again, he paused. Jess caught him looking. ‘Again.’
‘Again what?’
‘That look. The one where you forget what you were doing.’
‘I haven’t forgotten.’
‘You stopped.’
‘Temporarily.’
She smiled. ‘You like looking at me.’
‘I do.’
‘Good.’
When he finished, John reached for another towel and attacked his own hair with his usual efficiency. Jess watched for several seconds. ‘You dried me like I was made of porcelain and you’re drying yourself like you’re trying to remove paint.’
John stopped with the towel over his head. ‘I’ve never had any complaints.’
‘From yourself?’
‘Exactly.’
She laughed and pulled her towel around herself. ‘I’m starving.’
‘Finally, something uncomplicated.’
Back in the bedroom, Jess opened her overnight bag. John expected her to take out clothes. Instead she glanced towards his shirt, picked it up and put it on.
‘That’s mine.’
‘Excellent observational skills this morning.’
‘You brought clothes.’
‘Also correct.’
‘Then why are you wearing mine?’
Jess merely rolled the sleeves and fastened enough buttons to make herself decent. ‘Well?’
John looked at her. ‘Apparently I’ve been wearing that shirt incorrectly.’
She laughed. ‘You like it.’
‘Very much.’
The cliché ought to have irritated him. Women wearing men’s shirts had been shorthand for intimacy for decades. Yet what affected him wasn’t merely how Jess looked in it. She had clean clothes within reach and had deliberately chosen something belonging to him. The distinction gave him a ridiculous amount of satisfaction.
MIA
Mia disappeared into the ensuite, and a moment later Mike heard the shower start. He lay back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, trying to work out what the hell happened next.This was easy, he realised. That was the problem. Or maybe it wasn’t a problem at all. Maybe that was the whole bloody point.
The shower shut off. A few minutes later, Mia emerged wrapped in his towel, hair dark and wet against her shoulders. She crossed to where she’d left her clothes in a heap beside the bed.
“So,” she said, pulling on her bra with the same casual efficiency she’d used to eat breakfast. “We should probably talk about this.”
Mike sat up straighter. Here it came. The morning-after conversation, the boundaries discussion, the inevitable moment where someone caught feelings and everything got complicated.
“Alright.”
Mia pulled her jumper over her head, then turned to face him. Her hair was still damp, leaving dark patches on the grey fabric. “I meant what I said last night. I’m not looking for a boyfriend.”
Mike found himself nodding before she’d even finished. “Right.”
“I want to keep doing this. Having sex with you. But I’m not—” She paused, choosing her words with uncharacteristic care. “I care about you. Obviously. But I’m not in love with you, Mike. I don’t want you to think this is something it isn’t.”
The words landed with unexpected force. Mike felt something twist in his chest—a small, sharp thing that might have been hurt. Not because he was in love with her either, but because she’d drawn the line so clearly, so quickly. Like she needed him to understand the limits before he got the wrong idea.
He forced himself to nod. “I know. I’m not—Christ, Mia, I’m not looking for that either.”
And he wasn’t. He really wasn’t. She was wonderful—funny and fearless and better in bed than he’d had any right to expect—but she was also eighteen. Jess’s age. Her friend. The complicated maths of that wasn’t going to change just because the sex was good.
Too old for her. The phrase arrived with startling clarity. Not too old to sleep with, apparently, but too old for whatever came after. Too old to actually be with someone who still had English first period and worried about notes from teachers.
“Good,” Mia said, and the tension in her shoulders eased slightly. “Because I like this. I like you. But I need it to be simple.”
“Simple,” Mike echoed.
“Yeah.” She sat on the edge of the bed to pull on her socks. “As I told you last night, we have sex. We’re honest with each other. But we’re not—we’re not doing the relationship thing. No expectations, no drama, no one getting hurt because someone wanted more than the other person could give.”
Mike watched her lace up her trainers with quick, efficient movements.
“That works for me,” he said.
“I like you,” Mike continued. “I think you’re bloody fantastic, actually. And the sex was—” He stopped, searching for the right word. “—excellent doesn’t quite cover it. But I’m not looking for a relationship either. Not a proper one. I’m not trying to jump into something serious with someone my daughter’s age.”
“So we’re on the same page.”
“Completely.”
SOPHIE
She looked at herself. She looked like Sophie again: uniform neat, hair combed, ribbon tied, a little tired maybe, and too bright-eyed if anyone looked closely, but ready for class. Ready for the world to think nothing had happened.
Except everything had.
She stood and turned to him. “Thank you.”
Phil immediately looked uncomfortable, which made her grin. “You hate being thanked.”
“I don’t hate it.”
“You absolutely hate it.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Nothing.” She stepped closer, still smiling. “I just wanted to say it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know. That’s why it counts.”
He looked at her then, really looked, and Sophie’s teasing softened before it disappeared completely. She kissed his cheek, slow and lingering.
“I liked it,” she said.