Cleopatra

She calls herself Cleopatra now. The name fits—given to her the moment she stepped in front of a lens and never taken back. She grew up studying that other Cleopatra, the one who toppled empires with a single lifted brow, and something in the story sank into her skin. Blonde hair loose, still damp from the shower, she stretches across the bed and lets the silk sheet slip down her body. One knee bends, the other slides open. Her fingers find the heat between her thighs and press. Slow circles at first, then firmer, faster. She keeps her eyes half-closed, watching the small movements of her own wrist. A soft sound escapes her throat each time her middle finger sinks deeper. She likes the control, likes knowing exactly where to touch and how long to linger. The fabric beneath her grows damp. She rocks against her own hand until the tension breaks and her breath stutters, blonde strands clinging to flushed cheeks. For a moment she lies still, palm flat against the pulse still beating between her legs, tasting the same power she once read about in history books.