bouncy waves of full, golden curl—the shade a lighter gold with less honey tones than my natural color. Not only that, but the strands were interlaced haphazardly with rose, daffodil and lily blossoms, a baby pink ribbon snaking in and out of the tresses, like some slithering sea creature.
The Dulcie O’Neil I knew and loved so well would never do flowers in her hair and would never, ever, under any circumstance, do baby pink. Ever.
The expression on my face was neither happy nor sad but merely contented, the ends of my lips slightly lifted as if I was going for the Mona Lisa. There was an overall youthful naiveté to my face—my cheeks were round which made it look like I was all of eighteen years old. My eyes were wide and could have portrayed surprise if not for my eyebrows, which weren’t raised but sat idly above my eyes, appearing haughty with the way they arched so perfectly. As to the color of my eyes, they were much more of an emerald green than in real life and my lips were plumper, my nose a bit more pert and upturned.
But what really attracted my attention was the portrait me’s clothing. I was dressed in a lemon yellow gown (that had more in common with a negligee than a dress) that seemed like it was made out of chiffon, the material was so delicate and almost see-through. The dress was very short, ending at my upper mid-thigh and edged in fine white lace. My arms appeared to be clasped behind my back, one hand delicately reappearing at my upper thigh where I inched the hem of the dress up to the V of my torso. Even though the viewer wasn’t able to see anything he shouldn’t have, based on the angle of where I was holding the dress, it was pretty obvious panties hadn’t been of concern to the artist. And the fact that the portrait me’s arms were pulled back behind me, in turn, pushed my chest forward and allowed the viewer’s attention to wholly focus on my incredibly alert nipples which protruded from the translucent material and were the first things to grab the viewer’s attention. I felt myself coloring with embarrassment at just the thought that I was basically unable to stop staring at what were supposedly my own nipples.
As to the rest of “my” breasts, they were in a word: gargantuan. They had to be at least twice their actual size of a full C (which isn’t anything to scoff at!). The rest of the “dress” was painted so as to appear clinging to my curves, being both sleeveless and plunging in the front, revealing the swells of each side of my ample breasts. The empire waist flared into a short skirt which, again, was obscenely tiny over one leg. With the way “my” face portrayed a youthful sensuality and the fact that “I” was nearly baring my feminine fruit, it appeared as if the portrait me were beckoning to the onlooker, teasing him seductively. I could just imagine that the follow up to this stunning piece of art would reveal an image of this woman on her back with a man between her legs while the forest creatures continued to look on nosily.
As to the link between the painting and the title, I was still baffled. “I give up. There’s nothing about this picture that in any way says law enforcement,” I said, shaking my head as I attempted not to be rude because, I mean, it was a portrait of me which in and of itself was supposed to be flattering. ’Course, I also couldn’t say the sexual way in which I was represented was in any way pleasing, but I also couldn’t say I was surprised. I mean, this was Bram we were talking about …
The vampire chuckled, facing me with an arched brow of amusement. “You misunderstood, Sweet.” Then he glanced at the painting again. “The title refers to the law of nature, my dear, not the law of man.”
“I don’t get the law of nature from it either,” I grumbled, deciding I wasn’t a fan of my portrait. “I look like a woodland prostitute.”
Bram chuckled again but it didn’t appear his attention was in any way
The Dulcie O’Neil I knew and loved so well would never do flowers in her hair and would never, ever, under any circumstance, do baby pink. Ever.
The expression on my face was neither happy nor sad but merely contented, the ends of my lips slightly lifted as if I was going for the Mona Lisa. There was an overall youthful naiveté to my face—my cheeks were round which made it look like I was all of eighteen years old. My eyes were wide and could have portrayed surprise if not for my eyebrows, which weren’t raised but sat idly above my eyes, appearing haughty with the way they arched so perfectly. As to the color of my eyes, they were much more of an emerald green than in real life and my lips were plumper, my nose a bit more pert and upturned.
But what really attracted my attention was the portrait me’s clothing. I was dressed in a lemon yellow gown (that had more in common with a negligee than a dress) that seemed like it was made out of chiffon, the material was so delicate and almost see-through. The dress was very short, ending at my upper mid-thigh and edged in fine white lace. My arms appeared to be clasped behind my back, one hand delicately reappearing at my upper thigh where I inched the hem of the dress up to the V of my torso. Even though the viewer wasn’t able to see anything he shouldn’t have, based on the angle of where I was holding the dress, it was pretty obvious panties hadn’t been of concern to the artist. And the fact that the portrait me’s arms were pulled back behind me, in turn, pushed my chest forward and allowed the viewer’s attention to wholly focus on my incredibly alert nipples which protruded from the translucent material and were the first things to grab the viewer’s attention. I felt myself coloring with embarrassment at just the thought that I was basically unable to stop staring at what were supposedly my own nipples.
As to the rest of “my” breasts, they were in a word: gargantuan. They had to be at least twice their actual size of a full C (which isn’t anything to scoff at!). The rest of the “dress” was painted so as to appear clinging to my curves, being both sleeveless and plunging in the front, revealing the swells of each side of my ample breasts. The empire waist flared into a short skirt which, again, was obscenely tiny over one leg. With the way “my” face portrayed a youthful sensuality and the fact that “I” was nearly baring my feminine fruit, it appeared as if the portrait me were beckoning to the onlooker, teasing him seductively. I could just imagine that the follow up to this stunning piece of art would reveal an image of this woman on her back with a man between her legs while the forest creatures continued to look on nosily.
As to the link between the painting and the title, I was still baffled. “I give up. There’s nothing about this picture that in any way says law enforcement,” I said, shaking my head as I attempted not to be rude because, I mean, it was a portrait of me which in and of itself was supposed to be flattering. ’Course, I also couldn’t say the sexual way in which I was represented was in any way pleasing, but I also couldn’t say I was surprised. I mean, this was Bram we were talking about …
The vampire chuckled, facing me with an arched brow of amusement. “You misunderstood, Sweet.” Then he glanced at the painting again. “The title refers to the law of nature, my dear, not the law of man.”
“I don’t get the law of nature from it either,” I grumbled, deciding I wasn’t a fan of my portrait. “I look like a woodland prostitute.”
Bram chuckled again but it didn’t appear his attention was in any way
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