The iClub
Copyright© 2026 by Caroline Stanton
Chapter 6
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 6 - 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
The weathered park bench creaked under Jess’s weight as she leaned forward, twirling a strand of honey-blonde hair around her slender finger. The late afternoon sun caught the glint of her silver charm bracelet. “Your dad’s a mechanic, right? So he’s used to seeing women in those skin-tight racing outfits with the logos plastered across their chests—but not teenage girls,” she said, tapping Gemma’s knee with a perfectly manicured nail. “We gotta ride that line where it’s almost too much, but not quite. Like when you accidentally bend over too far in those frayed denim shorts that barely cover your arse.”
Gemma snorted, stretching her tanned legs across Sophie’s lap, her ankle bracelet catching the light. “Please. Dad’s face turned the colour of a fire truck last summer when I wore that white crop top to dinner.” She mimed adjusting an imaginary bra strap with exaggerated innocence, batting her mascara-coated eyelashes dramatically, making Mia giggle into her cherry-red soda can, condensation dripping between her fingers.
Meanwhile, Sophie was sketching in her leather-bound notebook—crude but detailed outlines of grid girls in high-waisted shorts and midriff-baring tops that clung to every curve. “What if you lean into the ‘helpful daughter’s friend’ angle?” she suggested, turning the page towards them with graphite-smudged fingers. “You ‘accidentally’ spill oil on your white shirt, ask him to show you how to clean it in the garage ... while wearing this.” Her pencil shaded in a thin cotton shirt knotted tightly beneath the breasts, revealing a strip of bare stomach.
Gemma’s eyes flashed with a predatory gleam. “Oil spill’s perfect. But I want to push harder.” She uncrossed her legs with deliberate slowness, leaning forward until her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper that made the others instinctively lean in.
“We all have each other’s dads’ numbers, right?” The girls exchanged glances, nodding with quickening breath. “We send them bikini shots—the ones from Mia’s pool party—but not to our own dads. Then we delete them with a panicked ‘wrong person’ text that makes it seem like we’re absolutely mortified.”
“Getting four bikini pics at once would be suspicious,” Sophie whispered, her cheeks flushing.
“God, no—one photo, but showing the four of us,” Gemma hissed, her fingernails digging into her own thigh. “I’ll send it to Paul, Mia to John. They’ll be primed and ready when we show up.”
Jess’s eyes widened, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as she grabbed Gemma’s wrist. “Fucking brilliant.”
Sophie rested her sketchbook on her knees, pencil hovering uncertainly above the page as she watched Jess, who had grown uncharacteristically quiet. “So, what about your dad?” Sophie ventured, tilting her head, trying to read Jess’s inscrutable gaze. “Should we do the same thing, or is there a special approach?”
Jess’s eyes flicked up, weighing the question. She chewed the inside of her cheek for a moment, then glanced over her shoulder, as if expecting her father to materialise on the jogging path. “He’s not like the others. He’s, I dunno, maths-brained. Logic puzzles, facts, trivia. If we want in, we have to ask for help—with homework or SAT prep or whatever. He lives for that condescending ‘let me show you’ moment. So we bait him with equations and pleated skirts.” She tapped her temple, a diabolical glint behind the blue of her eyes. “Slip in a few cleavage shots when we lean over the workbook, and he won’t know what hit him.”
Gemma grinned, arching an eyebrow. “So, like, you need a study group? I could be the ‘bad at maths’ friend. I’m already failing AP Calculus, so it’s not even a lie.”
Jess laughed, flicking her wrist so the charm bracelet jingled. “As long as you remember to wear the right bra under the sheer uniform blouse. Trust me. He notices every detail, even when he pretends not to.”
Mia, who had been fidgeting with her phone the entire time, suddenly held it up for the group to see. A gallery of photos: four girls, sun-drenched and dripping from the pool, arms wrapped around one another, bikinis riding high and faces flushed with mischief. “This is the pic,” Mia said, voice hushed. “We send it now, and then show up later. It’s like ... synchronised swimming, but sluttier.”
Sophie’s cheeks went scarlet as she considered the implications. “Should we hit send at the same time? It’ll be less suspicious.”
Gemma’s fingers trembled as she unlocked her phone, hovering over Paul’s contact icon. “Count of three?” she said, voice barely above a whisper.
They clustered together, giggling nervously, thumbs poised. Jess took a breath, arched her back reflexively, and issued the command: “Three, two, one—send.”
There was a moment of collective silence as all four watched their screens, waiting for the read receipts, the dots indicating a reply. Jess’s dad responded with a polite “wrong number?” almost instantly, followed by a winky face that made her snort with laughter. Mia’s dad replied with an ellipsis and nothing else. Paul and John were slower, but the trap was set.
The front door groaned like it was in on the joke when Mia and Jess stumbled into the Donovan residence, their arms loaded with textbooks and half-empty smoothie cups. The house smelled like lemon polish and something muskier beneath—laundry left too long in the hamper, maybe, or the faint animal tang of a man living without a wife. Mia’s nose wrinkled as she kicked off her shoes, her sock catching on the edge of a loose floorboard.
“Dad?” Jess called, her voice pitched deliberately higher than normal. The staircase echoed with the sound of her shoes clicking against the wood—one, two, a pause on the third step where it always creaked. Mia followed, her fingers trailing along the banister just to feel the vibration when Jess’s weight shifted above her.
A crash came from the kitchen—glass shattering, followed by a muttered curse. Mia’s pulse jumped at the sound of Jess’s dad’s voice, rough as sandpaper. “In here,” he called, and she could already picture him: sleeves rolled up past his elbows, forearms dusted with flour, that one stubborn lock of hair always falling into his eyes no matter how many times he shoved it back.
Jess shot Mia a look over her shoulder—eyes wide, mouth quirking at the corners—before tossing her textbook onto the hall table with deliberate carelessness. The top button of her blouse came undone between one step and the next, the fabric gaping just enough to show the lacy edge of her bra.
Mia’s breath caught when they rounded the corner into the kitchen. Mike Donovan stood at the sink, his back to them, shoulders tense under his rumpled work shirt. The window above the counter framed him in golden afternoon light, the kind that made everything look softer than it was. A broken juice glass glittered at his feet.
Mia dropped to her knees faster than a sinner at confession, her cheer skirt flaring around her thighs as she reached for the largest shard. The movement sent her ponytail swinging forward—golden strands catching the sunlight like a halo—but it was the neckline of her blouse that did the real work, gaping open to reveal the lacy swell of her cleavage. She heard Jess’s sharp inhale behind her, followed by the unmistakable sound of a textbook hitting the floor with deliberate force.
“Careful,” he rasped, his voice doing that thing Mia had noticed lately—like gravel wrapped in silk. His shadow fell over her, blocking the sunlight as he crouched down. The scent of him hit her first—laundry detergent and something muskier beneath, sweat and the faintest hint of bourbon. His pulse jumped when her knee brushed against his.
“I got it,” she murmured, tilting her head just enough to make her ponytail brush his forearm. The glass glittered between her fingers, catching the light as she turned it slowly. “Wouldn’t want you to—” Her breath hitched when his hand closed over hers, calluses scraping her knuckles. “—cut yourself.”
His grip tightened fractionally, his thumb pressing into the delicate webbing between her fingers. Mia could feel his pulse through his palm—rapid, insistent—and the realisation sent heat flooding between her legs. His wedding band was cold against her skin, the metal warmed only slightly by their shared body heat.
Jess’s shoe tapped an impatient rhythm against the tile. “Dad,” she drawled, popping the ‘d’ like bubblegum, “Mia’s helping.” The emphasis landed somewhere between an eye-roll and a dare, underscored by the way she leaned against the counter—hips cocked, skirt riding up just enough to show the lace trim of her thigh-highs.
The kitchen clock ticked three seconds before Mr Donovan released Mia’s hand like it had burned him. Mia watched his throat bob as he swallowed hard, his gaze flicking from her cleavage to the broken glass still glittering between them.
Jess’s foot hooked around Mia’s ankle under the table—a silent signal. Mia exhaled shakily, letting the glass shard slip from her fingers with deliberate slowness. It hit the tile with a crystalline chime just as she “lost her balance”, pitching forward into Jess’ dad. Her chest flattened against his pectorals, brushing him with her nipples by accident-on-purpose.
“Oops,” she breathed, lips parted just enough for him to smell the strawberry gloss. His hands flew to her waist—too big, too warm—and lingered a heartbeat too long before pushing her upright.
“Dad,” Jess whined, dragging out the vowel like taffy. “I told you we needed help with maths.” She twirled a strand of hair around her finger—the same way she’d practised in the bathroom mirror that morning—and jutted out her lower lip. “Mia’s way better at explaining than Mrs Carlisle.”
Mr Donovan’s fingers twitched towards his loosened tie—a nervous tic Mia had catalogued weeks ago. His gaze darted to the oven clock. “I’ve got a conference call in—”