Pam was forty-five years old and didn't consider herself either lovely or a girl, but smiled at Dore's praise anyway. She had never been a bombshell of any sort but she was attractive in a "step or two ahead of Plain Jane" sort of way. Her years tromping around the forests and fields downtime had trimmed away any trace of the fat that she felt had made her so unattractive in her late thirties and early forties, the self-pity-cherry-bon-bon-eating years that had followed her divorce. She took a deep breath, sucked in her proudly hourglass waist, and stuck her ample-enough-for-another-look chest out. It seemed things were still holding up well there. She allowed herself a rather pleased grin.
"Maybe I do still got something, huh? Let's hope it's something an Arab pirate type might appreciate." She took a careful step toward Dore. "Now it's your turn, darlin'." Dore made no move and simply nodded to Pam with a Please, do what you must look so Pam gently reached out and began loosening the complex knot-work of braids Dore kept her hair so severely bound up in. To Pam's great surprise, long, lush locks the color of burnished brass laced with strands of silver fell down to nearly her waist.
"Talk about holding your light under a bushel! Good golly what I would give to have hair like yours! You keep it tucked up so tight, I had no idea!" Pam reached out and felt a lock, it was thick and smooth, nothing like the thin, dry feel of her own hopeless hair. Dore blushed a little and quietly admitted that Gerbald was quite fond of it and that's why she kept it long for him, despite the nuisance of its required care.
Pam nodded approvingly. "I'll bet he likes it. It's gorgeous, Dore." Pam shunted aside the bit of jealousy that crept around her mind and said in what she hoped was a firm yet comforting tone, "Okay, next we got to free up your bosom. Take off the smock." Dore complied and the drab gray piece of utilitarian clothing came off.
Like many downtime worker women Pam had seen, Dore kept her bosom tightly confined. Accomplishing this was what appeared to be some kind of wrap made of sturdy canvas. At Pam's silent nod Dore loosened the straps on the dour down-time version of a modesty-defending brassiere. Pam's eyes widened. She knew Dore had plenty in the chest department, but the reality was, well, larger than expected. Jean Harlow, eat your heart out! Dore's chest thrust out heroically like that of a mighty warrior queen, nothing at all like the grandmotherly flaccidity she had expected. Dore, bare to the waist with her hair down had ceased to resemble the humble washer woman Pam had grown accustomed to thinking of her as and was revealed as a Wagnerian goddess, a lovely and fearless Valkyrie. Dore was solidly built, certainly. Even after the island diet the hourglass was perhaps a bit thick, but now that her true buxom, healthy beauty was revealed the effect was something close to ravishing.
Pam let out a long, almost catcall of a whistle. "I'm going to call you 'Wonder Woman' from now on. You are a hottie!"
Dore blushed even harder. "Gerbald, he tells me I am beautiful, but you know him. His sweet talking is shameless. When I was a young girl in my teens I remember the village boys thought well of me and I often felt their lustful looks, but that was so long ago."
"Girl, I'm here to tell you, you still got it and then some! Gawd, Dore, you're gorgeous, and not just in a 'for a woman your age' kind of way. You could make the village boys get down on their knees and beg right now! Shit, I guess that makes me Maryann 'cause you got Ginger nailed."
Dore's face burned the scarlet of a summer sunset. At last she smiled widely in an open way that Pam had never seen before. A day for firsts indeed. A bright bit of Psychology 101 popped into Pam's head and she put it to The Plan's advantage right away.
"Look, Dore, just pretend you are a silly seventeen year old again and these pirate types are the village boys! It's perfectly all right to be a bit naughty in a situation like that. We are just pretending, to save our skins. So just let go and be a little more flirtatious than you would have allowed yourself back then. Well, a lot more flirtatious. We need these clowns to want our bodies badly!"
It was Dore's turn to laugh now, in a shy but pleased way. "The village boys! Yes, I was a flirt sometimes, oh the shame. Very well. I can do that, Pam. We will make this work."
"Right. Now, off comes the bottom parts." Dore's face changed rapidly from glowing sunset to kitchen flour again. Pam thought she heard her mumbling a prayer for forgiveness under her breath as she began to unclasp the ties of her exceedingly modest dresses.
A short time later the women emerged bare-chested, wearing simple grass skirts over their under-garments in materials hurriedly reassigned from the hut's walls, making sure to show quite a bit of leg. Dore's legs were those of an athlete, well-muscled from years on the road and standing at work for long hours, but still shapely. The strings of clam shells they had made to decorate the place while fighting the sheer boredom of their existence were now draped around their necks and bunches of hapless orchids growing nearby had been firmly woven into their free-flowing hair. Each carried a large basket full of that evening's dinner fruit and Pam had used some of the berry juice to brighten up their lips.
"We are some glorious and sex-starved hula harlots in need of some male attention and we always get our way!" Pam announced bravely, and they both nearly lost control to a fit of nervous giggles.
"Now, Dore," Pam said breathing a bit hard to retain composure, "remember these guys are dangerous. We don't want them to get too close. Let's try to lead them back up the trail where our guys can get the jump on them and the fight can't be seen from the ship. When the killing starts, we run like hell, okay?"
"Got it." Dore resembled some kind of wild and dangerous heathen chieftainess, a tigress of lust. If Pam had a mirror she would have been both shocked and proud of her own wanton and wild appearance. She figured she at least somewhat resembled a Caucasian Hollywood extra made into a faux-Polynesian girl, last seen throwing flower petals in the path of Fantasy Island's latest guests. Obviously a counterfeit wahine, but still easy on the eye. A sudden burst of confidence filled her, Goddamn it, we are looking fine!
As they sashayed down the path to the beach as seductively as they could muster, Pam began to feel eyes on her. She tried not to look right or left in order to avoid giving away her men's positions but out of the corner of her sharp and well trained birder's eyes she could make out some of the sailors hidden in the bushes, their mouths open in pure astonishment tinged with a bit of dawning appreciation. You goofballs better keep your eyes on the pirates when we come back this way she tried to radiate back at them. These treats are not for you! All too soon they left the cover provided by the last line of palms perched along the high tideline and sauntered casually onto the still uncomfortably hot sand. Pam stifled a grimace and whispered loudly, "Remember, we want them to come ashore. We must be alluring sirens. Let's get their attention now."
Dore called out sweetly in German, "Come, oh wretched and lustful goats from yon ship. Come and feel my ample breasts in your greasy, godless hands!" Pam almost lost it again but realized they would be better off not revealing their identity as Europeans beyond the paleness of their skin, which she hoped would pass for pleasingly exotic in these latitudes. She stage whispered to Dore, "Don't speak German or English to them. We want them to think we are savages."
Dore's brow knitted below her wreath of exotic blossoms. "What should I say, then?"