Cleopatra's bath

The blonde looked at herself in the mirror and thought of Cleopatra. Milk baths. The ancient trick. She let the robe slip off her shoulders, stepped into the warm milk, and felt it rise around her thighs. Her skin already looked softer. She leaned back against the marble, closed her eyes, and let her hand drift down between her legs. Gentle circles at first, then firmer, searching. The milk rippled with every movement. She pictured the queen doing the same—soft skin, slow fingers, legs spread wide in the bath. The fantasy made her wetter. She pressed two fingers inside, slow, deliberate, breathing heavier now. Her other hand traced her nipples until they hardened. She came quietly, the milk still warm around her, her body slack against the edge of the tub. A penthouse pet needed smooth skin. Now she had it.