The Master's Willing Slave

"Liam, sweetie, why don't you stay over at your godmother's tonight? There's something I could really use your help with." After dinner, I took my twenty-year-old godson's hand and spoke softly, my voice a little shaky.

"Godmother, dinner was amazing. Whatever you need, just name it. I've got your back." Liam's hands were warm—the kind of warmth only a young man radiates, full of life and energy.

Looking at his athletic frame and easy smile, I felt a wave of embarrassment wash over me. How was I going to say this?

"Liam… I want you to help me become a woman." The words stumbled out after several false starts. I finally mustered the courage, my heart pounding.

I'm forty years old, and I've never been with a man. All because of this face—dark and unattractive. Lately, the longing has been driving me half-crazy.

Tonight, I invited Liam over with one goal in mind. I was determined to ask him, no matter how awkward it felt.

"Godmother, what are you talking about? You are a woman." Liam looked genuinely confused, his brow slightly furrowed.

"I mean… make me feel like one. Let me experience what it's like to be with a man." My face flushed hot, and I had to look down at my hands.

"Are you serious?" He was studying me now, not judging, just… curious.

"Dead serious. How could I joke about something like this? I'm forty, Liam. I've never been intimate. I just want to know what it feels like. Please… will you help me?"

The alcohol was talking—I'd downed a few beers before he arrived, just to get the nerve. Otherwise, I'd never have the guts.

"Godmother, this is… I mean, is this really okay?" He didn't seem embarrassed. If anything, he looked thoughtful, his eyes lingering on me.

"I don't have anyone else to ask. You're the only man I trust. Tell me the truth, Liam—do you think I'm that ugly?" There was no point being shy now. I lifted my gaze and met his eyes.

"You want honesty?"

"Always."

"Okay. Yeah, you're not… conventionally pretty. But godmother, you've got a killer body. Seriously—all the right curves, toned, strong. It's… appealing."

His eyes traveled over me—my chest, my waist, my hips—not like I was some pathetic old woman, but like he was actually seeing me.

My name is Evelyn Roscente. I just turned forty, and I'm still a virgin. My family whispers behind my back that I'm a spinster.

It's not that I didn't want love. I craved it. I still dream at night of a man's warmth beside me.

But I'm dark-skinned and what most would call plain, even ugly. I've faced a lifetime of dismissive glances. I'm the kind of woman men look through, not at.

I even saved up for plastic surgery once. But my starting point was so low, it didn't help much. I'm also short—just five feet tall.

And yeah, I've got a sharp tongue. I've been on more blind dates than I can count, and not one made it past dessert. They always found an excuse to leave.

So here I am. Forty and untouched. I used to tell myself it didn't matter—that I didn't need a man to be happy. But these past couple years… something broke in me. I started going to male host clubs.

The guys there would humor me—have a drink, sing a song. But when I asked for more? Their smiles would tighten. "Sorry ma'am, we don't do outcall." Even money couldn't change their minds. I knew what it was. I saw the revulsion they tried to hide.