Ings of Queens

'And check this one out - this one's a family heirloom. Dad says it's been in our family for hundreds of years, ever since we left England or Scotland or whatever and came here. We used to be kings and queens, Dad says.'

Luke Rosenberg was trying to impress her, of course - he'd been trying to for the best part of the school year, since he'd met her on their first day at orientation. Both starting at a new university, both first-year students, and both boarding from their homes in the south--they had ended up by chance beside each other in the lecture hall and had found a natural attraction ever since.

Luke was convinced Alina liked him. He was convinced that, if he asked, she'd become his girlfriend. And, as is the way with men the world over, he was convinced that Alina would spread her legs for him...

If

he played his cards right.

The problem was, Luke was something of a wannabe playboy. He had phone numbers for Sophie, the cute, button-faced blonde with an athletic body and a wardrobe seemingly filled with shirts two sizes too small for her bust; Ruby, the red-headed cheerleader pegged to become the lead girl next year; Felicity, the mysterious, bookish Eurasian girl who could only be a slut outside of school with the way she wore her cleavage and short skirts; and Marsie, an otherwise average, wavy-brown haired girl, attractively typical aside from her enormous

ass-

et - one so big, she had torn her pants

twice

while bending down in her classes

just this year.

And, again, as men tend to do,

Luke wanted to bang them all.

But here, on holiday break, Alina wasn't just

nearby

, she was

in his very house

, while the others were all over the country, and all he needed was some way to break the ice for

real

with her so that he could similarly break into her panties.

That's when he'd remembered his Dad's old junk up in the attic last week, and, amongst it, forgotten for years, the old Rosenberg family tiara, amongst so many other gold and gemstone trinkets. He'd always assumed the stories about it were just superstitious bedtime stories cooked up by parents wishing for their child to hurry to sleep so they could finally spend some time alone in their

own

bedroom, and that the tiara was likely no more valuable than one from the local party store - otherwise, why would it be in his attic?

As a kid, his father had said that tiara had subjugated generations of loyal worshippers, had sat atop the scalp of the most influential women in history, all accompanied by his bloodline--the Rosenberg family, who had, in the very earliest ages, migrated from some unknown city in the depths of western Europe, completed a pilgrimage that would almost put Jesus's to shame, and ended up marrying irrevocably into the most powerful royalty in English history--which had subsequently helped to ensure no one usurped their rein, right up until the natural, unmarried passing of one last Rosenberg King, after which his effects were left to his next of kin, a cousin and secret teenage lover with whom he had shared several bastardised spawn in his boyhood, leaving the first of a new royal bloodline to take the throne without them or their mysterious tiara. The lineage of Rosenbergs was said to be lost when that new rule took over, the new bloodline eager to wipe any trace of any family other than it's own from the common consciousness.

It was a superstitious story, he knew. Magic, sorcery, spooky tiaras and powerful men and women telling younger subordinates what to do - all an allegory for him and his parents, reminding him he was supposed to listen to them when he was told to go to bed, he was sure.

And yet...

At any rate, Luke had decided, it would make a good enough excuse to ask Alina around to his place, and even if the old junk turned out to be nothing more than that, the glittering gold and dusty old jewels might just be enough to somehow convince Alina to part her thighs for him.

Smiling, Luke held up the tiara, wiping a film of dust from part of the metal with his thumb, allowing a priceless golden locket to fall carelessly away as he lifted it from the old box. It was a gorgeous thing, he supposed, full of colourful stones and shining--if a little dull, now--metal. Just the type of thing a woman would be enamoured over, making her hopefully want him more. Holding it out, he looked into the wide hazel eyes that sat fixated on the item in his hands, seeing the thing's reflection in them, but dreaming only of how those eyes would widen and pinch beneath him as her hands grasped his shoulders and her legs lifted around his hips while he fucked her...

...

Juliette heard her name come once more from her father's chambers and scowled again, though her fury did nothing to relax the grip of the guard's hand around her slender bicep. Gathering herself, desperate to offset this meeting but knowing that she could not ward it off for long, she straightened the hem of her flowing skirt one more time and checked the laces of her girdle, even though she knew it was perfectly tight already. Then, with nothing left to excuse herself with, and with the royal guardsman pulling Juliette's arm, Juliette went stumbling from the cloak room, the tall arched doors to her father's chambers parting mere moments later like the forbidden entranceways to who knew how many hapless women before her, bringing her undeniably to the lion's den.

A week ago, Juliette would have stridden into her father's room with a skip in her step, welcoming the new age of responsibility and power that her ennoblement would bestow upon her with open arms and giddy energy, unable to think past all the wonderous gowns and handsome manservants she would be drowning in come that evening. She might even, she dared not hope, soon be given to a man, no doubt one of high birth and great wealth--and hopefully one of elegant grace and generous looks--with whom she would share her crown, her power, and her bed, the last of which gave her an excitement altogether more personal than the others, though she had never discussed such a thing, not even with her personal maidservant, Violet.

But ever since she had snuck into her father's study to steal a few gulps of the excellent brandy he kept in a secretive little cabinet there, and so subsequently had been on hand to hear her father as he entered, slurring his speech and speaking to a woman whose voice Juliette had not before heard.

His words had been outright disgraceful. Juliette's father had talked of doing all manner of devilish deeds, insinuating several situations in which he might

copulate

with the girl, causing Juliette to clutch her mouth in shock and horror before--she couldn't help herself--bending down to glance through the lock into the antechamber outside, half-hoping to catch the face of the traitorous hag whom might dare lead her father to the devil's realm, and half fearing for what she might see instead.

What Juliette saw changed her life forever.

There, kneeling on her father's carpet, her petticoat unbuttoned, her bosom exposed in a way that should never be allowed of

anyone

before a King--save perhaps for his wife--smiling up at her father, was a serving girl, perhaps a waitress or cook's assistant, or perhaps one of the castle's couriers. Her plain grey clothing and long black hair - stained with colour in places along its length where she had, no doubt, been forced to wet it in salt water or mud or some other liquid horrid for healthy hair - signified that she was not of particularly high birth, and she did not appear to have notable beauty or personal cleanliness.

But worse still than the woman was Juliette's father, for, as she took in the partially bare-chested woman, he entered her narrow perspective, his colourful garments and tall frame unmistakable. Bending to see him fully, Juliette looked up in time to see her father tipping back a glass he had apparently lifted from the cupboard beneath the stairwell, a golden fluid disappearing into his mouth before--Juliette flinched--the glass came hurtling towards her door, smashing into pieces on the stone not six feet away from where Juliette hid. Putting her petrified eye to the lock once more, Juliette was just in time to see her mother's tiara, the Crown, the priceless symbol of her Queenship and a sacred item which must never leave her side until the day she was succeeded, descending towards the plain serving girl's scalp.

Juliette's heart felt as if it might explode from her chest. She could barely breathe. She had no idea where he had gotten the crown, why her mother did not have it on her person, or what he was doing with it here, now, in his hands while he entertained this

serving

girl's attentions. She knew that her father was doing something horrible, that he was making a grave, unholy mistake. Juliette didn't know that the true bloodline in power was actually that of her father's. She didn't know that he, like his fathers before him, had chosen to serve more privately behind a Queen, one who carried out all the public displays required of the royal leader while he ran things in her shadow - no, she only knew that her mother, at that very moment no doubt fast asleep upstairs while her drunk, unfaithful bastard of a husband stole her sacred crown and

copulated

with this, this

no one

who ought not even warrant his blessing, was in humiliating, unfaithful danger. Perhaps not physical danger, unless her father had beaten or chained up Juliette's mother in order to take the crown - but emotional, mental, and spiritual danger nonetheless. Juliette knew no worse abuse than to be cheated upon, no greater destruction of trust or burning of love that could be committed... And she was about to witness her father do it to the Queen of Lands.

She hesitated, nervous as she always had been, lacking the worldly experience to act upon her senses. She wrung her hands, swallowed - then, in a great gust of uncertain confidence, threw the study door open and screamed a command to halt...

...Just

in time to see her father's trousers slip from his waist, the pink cylinder of his manhood swinging up and about in the air between he and the girl, the silver-golden, glittering, magnificent Queen's tiara nestled amongst her dirty, unworthy hair.

Juliette screamed in both horror and anger, unable to tear her eyes free even as the slave girl's right hand rose into the air, her slender fingertips closing around the base of her father's length, her head already beginning to move forwards towards his manhood, seemingly unheeding of Juliette's sudden interruption. Juliette saw her cheeks deform as her mouth opened, and caught the slimmest hint of pink-red as her tongue emerged, reaching forth for her father's appendage.

Juliette's father was the only one who reacted somewhat normally. He staggered back, his penis slipping from the embrace of the young serving girl's hand, bending to collect his trousers from about his ankles. 'Juliette!' He called, but by now Juliette was already turning, bolting towards the chamber doors as fast as her feet could carry her, tears welling in her eyes, petticoat flailing. She reached the wooden doors and pulled, tossing them open just in time to reveal her mother on the other side, one hand outstretched to grasp for the handle. Both women stared at each other, Juliette recoiling in surprise, terrified for what her mother would surely see behind her and horrified that she was awake and here rather than asleep upstairs - but Juliette's maternal parent simply smiled at her daughter, giving her the exact same look she always did, a pliant, kindly smile that had always symbolised peace and safety to Juliette as a girl, as if nothing in all the world could possibly be wrong.

'Hello, my sweet,' Juliette's mother said, touching her face and stepping past her daughter. Mouth agape, utterly dumbfounded, Juliette just watched her mother enter her chambers, stepping right past the still kneeling servant girl and naked husband, the King. Leaning slightly, the Queen of all Juliette had ever known kissed her husband lightly on the cheek, gave one last smile over her shoulder to Juliette, and climbed the stairs to her bedchamber. She didn't even seem to know the serving girl was there, much less exposed before the King, inches away from performing vilely indecent acts upon his person. And for that matter, the serving girl had seemingly not even reacted to the Queen's appearance, either. Still, she knelt, looking towards the man opposite her, as if waiting for him to return to her so that she may continue her devil's work. She did not erupt to her feet, cry for forgiveness or even seem to glance towards the Great Queen. Not even once.

Juliette turned and ran until she found herself collapsing to her knees in the soft, damp grass some hundred metres outside the castle. She had run until her lungs refused to inhale any longer, until her legs refused to hold her up, and until her brain refused to think. Then, at last, she had fallen...And she had wept.

A week later, after seven days of brooding in her chambers over what she had seen with only her servants, who were each sworn to silence, for company, Juliette was summoned, accompanied by a royal guard, to her father's chambers. As with all official summons, her immediate and hasty attendance was not simply encouraged; it was demanded. No one - not even the King and Queen's daughter - outranked a summons. At first, Juliette had been fearful that the guard was here to do something else, something vaguely designed to educate her on her observations a week prior - but the guard simply passed on his orders and stood, waiting to take Juliette to see her parents.

...

'Wow,' Alina said, reaching out for the tiara. 'That's cool. How old is this?'

'It's, like, tens of thousands of years old.' Luke said, embellishing vagrantly. He couldn't remember when his family had been in power, and frankly, he had too many other things on his mind right now to consider ancient history - not in the least, the pair of round objects suspended in Alina's modest blue plaid shirt, and the stiffening erection threatening to tent his shorts, an erection which he kept carefully tucked between folded legs. 'I'm pretty sure it was made by some ancient race, and my family got it when they migrated across the world to England to become rulers.'

Luke had just told Alina the history as he remembered it. His family, a long time ago, had migrated from Russia or Germany or somewhere near there, travelling by foot all the way to England, where, by luck, they had met the rulers of their age, an unpopular and weak family line that continued to produce nervous Queens and timid Kings. Somewhere along the way--Luke liked to think his family had fought viciously, gambled dangerously, and schemed cunningly to win it--they had taken possession of this tiara from a mysterious gypsy family that had disappeared by the next morning without a trace. Once they had arrived, and the eldest of the family's children, now a strong young man named Daniel, had happened to fall mutually in love with the kingdom's then heir to the throne, Princess Lauren, he had decided to use the tiara as their new crown, presenting it as a public gift to her on the day of their marriage, the publicity of the act encouraging her to wear it immediately. From that day onwards, Luke's distant family bloodline had been Kings and Queens for hundreds of years, until his portion of the family had migrated to the Americas long ago, leaving it all behind.

'It's really pretty.' Alina said, smiling. She turned it over in her hands, and Luke almost thought she was going to put it on all on her own - but then, smiling, she handed it back. 'Thanks for showing me your family's cool stuff, Luke.'

If there had been such a thing as a 'button to turn women on', in that moment, Luke would have broken the button, jumped Alina, and been feeling his erection parting her and diving inside before she could say "Luke, fuck me silly." The phrase she had instead said to him, however, did little to instil confidence in the idea that she was dampening like a bursting dam between her thighs. Taking the tiara from her outstretched hand, his fingertips brushed hers, and a thrill went through him. Then, Luke looked up, meeting the green orbs behind those wide-rimmed, gold-tinged glasses, seeing a polite, attentive, yet edging boredom face surrounding them.

Fuck it,

he thought.

Worth a shot.

'Why not try it on?' He said, as casually as he could muster. He smiled, holding up the tiara, pointed at her so that he would only have to lift it straight onto her head. The jewels in the slender band seemed to gleam and sparkle despite the dust on them, enormous purple, gold, red and green stones flickering amongst a bed of diamonds, stylish and attractive in their golden frame, lavish and rich without looking gaudy and cheap. It

was

a gorgeous item, he thought absently - probably worth a fortune, too - but he hardly cared for shiny stones and old rusty metal. Not when curvy girls with boobs aching to be grabbed sat not three feet away from him, and hard penises begged to be used between his hot thighs.

'Oh, I-' Alina began, but Luke pushed his advantage as hard as he hoped he could push his cock in--

if

this worked.

'C'mon, it'll look great on you!' Luke said, smiling. 'The gold matches your glasses, and the emeralds match your eyes.'

It was a rare moment of complimentary attention to detail that came to Luke in an instant. Realistically, he'd never have thought to compliment a woman on how something matched her

anything

- he didn't know the first thing about female fashion and, like any typical male, preferred to simply file all that stuff under "woman's business" and claim he thought makeup wasn't necessary for any woman to look sexy. For all he cared, she could have a golden moahawk, a neon pink bra wrapped in a plastic bag, a Scottish kilt and one stiletto, one sneaker on and he'd still compliment her, just as long as it got her out of whatever costume she was wearing and into his bed. Luke might not have been a

good

guy--he was too young and horny to think much about the morality or empathy of his decisions--just a lustful one.

Alina blushed, shying a little. Alina was a gorgeous girl - she had flowing auburn hair, hazel eyes, freckles from head to toe, and enough curves to put any other girl in their year level to shame. She was a touch on the larger side, her body naturally tall, wide, and beholden to putting on weight, but she wore it well, and any small excess fat she'd managed to store had all gone to her ass, chest and waist, making her look like one

very

sexy handful. Alina's body drove Luke wild, as evidenced by the throbbing boner in his shorts, but Alina, like women the world over, assumed that her size looked all fat and no shape, constantly underestimating her own appearance in favour of self-deprecating opinions. As such, Luke's compliments hit just where they needed to, and she felt a little of her inhibitions slip away as she wondered, just for a moment, if Luke might be a cut above the men she'd met before.

He wasn't. But, ten seconds later, Alina would longer care a dime for who or what Luke was, or what he wanted to do with her.

'Well, alright!' Alina said, smiling and allowing Luke to lean towards her, the golden frame of the tiara disappearing above her eyeline as it settled into place atop her head, the old metal gently scratching her scalp as it slipped through her hair to nestle at her bodily apex.

Blinking, Alina opened new eyes onto the world, and saw with glittering, sparkling, dazzling intensity, the man to whom she knew - without even a shadow of a doubt - she owed

everything

.