Les Is Mor

All in all, life was good. I wasn't ready to get married and start a family quite yet, mainly because the only woman I had deep feelings for had shipped herself off to New York years ago. I was 'surviving', just sailing along successful and satisfied (often), when I received a phone call on a Friday afternoon around 5:00 that started a chain-reaction avalanche.

"Les is Mor, can I help you?"

"Are you Les?" His tone was belligerent.

"Speaking."

"You'll get yours too." There was anger in his threat, and I wondered who else got theirs because of the 'too'. In fact, I wondered what any of it meant, but despite my curiosity I didn't need to hear him explain, so I disconnected. Within 15 seconds, it rang again, and this time I noticed the number. I wasn't surprised when the same hostility interrupted me.

"Les is ..."

"What are your hours?" Disrespect was dripping, and I immediately suspected racial animosity.

"Noon to six, Wednesday through Sunday." There wasn't any respect in my tone either.

"We can't make it then."

"Sorry." I wasn't, and disconnected. I wished for the old phones that could be slammed down so the other end would know you were hanging up in anger.

When it rang again, it was the same number, and I had to fight myself to stop it from going to voicemail. I didn't because I hate automated, impersonal routing that often doesn't let you address the real problem. My policy is to always answer in person during my open hours, and I wasn't going to break my own rule for the first time.

"Les is Mor. Can ..." I was interrupted again.

"Stay open until 7 tonight." A demand without a please. Hearty har har.

"Our hours are noon to six." I was reaching for the disconnect button when he enticed in his own way.

"We will make it worth your time."

"You know our hours. I have plans tonight." I disconnected again.

It was 5:57 when the perfect rich guy-trophy wife-stereotype couple walked in. The man was on the far downhill side of middle age and the young eye candy hanging on his arm was beautiful. He looked familiar but I couldn't place him, and I knew I'd seen her but couldn't remember where. He was tall and lanky, with a shaved head and a mostly gray beard. She was as hot as it gets, and what she wore didn't hide it. They walked right past my sales girl without answering when she said we were closing and they didn't slow until they stood in front of my perch. They both put their left hands on the counter so I could see their matching wedding rings. It was odd, approaching weird.

"I called earlier and asked you to stay open until 7:00." He was as blunt and obnoxious in person, but it was harder to disconnect. I was cold as I tried to hang up anyway. I hoped he could feel the phone slamming down.

"That was not a request, it was a demand, and I already said no."

"You did not. You said you have plans."

"It's the same, and I do."

"We made it before six, and we're going to shop."

Well, I'll give him credit for having balls. I don't know why he thought he could decide what happened in my store, but it was ballsy. And incorrect.

"No, you're not. Come back tomorrow. It's 6:00 and we are now closed."

All the other customers were gone and my sales girls were fidgeting. It was 6:00 straight up. I waved goodbye to my girls, and they were out the door in a flash.

****************

My birth certificate says Les s Moore. That's right, I have a middle initial but no middle name, and that middle initial is neither capitalized nor punctuated. My parents are big on things they think funny, especially my dad, and he likes me to say my name by drawling the s so it sounds like is.

A few people make the connection that my store name is a play on my name, which is partly true, but it mainly comes from the message it conveys. Since Mies Van Der Rohe expounded on it in the 1940's, 'less is more' has been a foundation principle of design. It means that designers, architects, and artists should only use the minimum amount necessary. Extra fluff and stuff doesn't add to the design, it detracts. Minimalism. Simplicity. Form follows function. Less is more.

I think 'less is more', spelled correctly, uses some extra unnecessary letters, so I believe my store name is a more appropriate spelling for the design principle it reflects.

I started Les is Mor with financial backing from my grandfather after I broke two bones in my neck during a fall at a college basketball game. Coach K thought I had a future in pro ball before the fall, but doctors said I didn't after it. They said contact sports were out because another collision or fall could easily paralyze me and might kill me.

Less time playing sports, especially the kind involving collisions, meant more time to do something else I love: designing women's clothes. That love is why I have both a store named Les is Mor and a design studio named Les is Mor with its own label. I only go to my design studio on Monday and Tuesday, although I do have two full time seamstresses that work normal hours Monday through Friday. They are both excellent at turning a sketch into a finished product and they can make necessary alterations to any item that needs it. My time with them early in the week keeps them hopping for the rest of the week.

The hard fall on the court also gave me more time to do something else I love and already did a lot: removing women's clothes before proving that stopping all contact was a doctor's prescription I wouldn't fill.

I awarded myself an MD, so I diagnosed from symptoms and wrote my own prescriptions. They weren't for me and they didn't need to be filled with pills, but they did need filling. They required me to repeatedly fill a patient with the same diagnostic probe needing my care for her affliction. It was not only a contact prescription, it was a prescription that required prolonged close contact, and my office hours were very flexible outside of my store hours.

The store and studio names also reflect the designs I make and the merchandise I stock. I'm a firm believer in the principle when it comes to a woman's body. Less clothing means more skin, and 'les is mor' applies to the interest, the arousal, and the satisfaction both sexes get when the design principle is applied to the most beautiful form in nature.

Draping nature's most beautiful form in minimalist enticement is all I sell in Les is Mor. Some of the draped designs are my own label, but most of them come from other design houses. I stock everything from women's hats to women's shoes, and every piece of minimalism in between, including what gets spritzed, applied, or rubbed on naked skin.

*********************

"There is ten thousand here." He laid a wad on the counter in front of me. It was thick. "It's yours for staying open for one more hour. We might spend more, and I know you can use it."

Well, he had me there. Who couldn't? I'd only had three ten thousand dollar days since I opened nine years ago, and this would be the easiest. I hadn't figured my take for the day, but his addition was likely to make it the first fifteen thousand dollar day.

Money is mainly a record keeping stat for determining how well a business is run, and it would help that stat, but that wasn't enough. I had enough money for my needs and my businesses were doing well. I was about to refuse it when I looked up again.

It was his wife's flirtatious smile at me that sold me. I did have plans, but they could be postponed for an hour. I thumbed through the wad and it looked like nothing but Franklins, so I put it in the safe and locked it.

I spoke to the smile and held her eyes, "My sales girls are gone and I need to make a couple of calls to adjust my plans, then I can assist you. Why don't you look around?"

I watched them as I made my re-arrangement calls, and he held up expensive gowns to see how they would look on her. He was an overt asshole to me, but apparently he doted on his wife and she seemed to fully return his love. Classic Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

Unfortunately, I was on the Mr. Hyde side of his apparent schizophrenia, but no amount of money was going to make me his obsequious 'boy' for the next hour. He was going to get back at least as much as he gave, and it wasn't money I was going to give back. None of the ten big ones in my safe were being refunded.

I was able to contact Lewis Fulton and postpone my 7:00 business dinner, but he said we couldn't get another reservation until 8:30, so I called my 8:30 date to apologize and cancel. That didn't go well, and I thought she was unnecessarily harsh in her refusal to accept my apology. Her disbelief was dripping, and I decided that I didn't need to go another round with her, so I disconnected.

I bet I haven't purposely disconnected ten times in my life, and I had just done it four times in a little over an hour.

When I finished my calls, my disposition was not sunny. I locked the front door, closed all the curtains, and finally approached Mr. Hyde and his gorgeous wife. The clock said 6:16, so more than a quarter of the time he paid for had already elapsed, and I wondered if he would insist on an add on. He wasn't getting one.

"Now, how can I assist you?"

"It's about time. She needs to try these on."

He'd picked three expensive gowns, one of which I'd designed, and each between $1500 and $2000. They could make a big dent in his 'deposit', and I could see the dollar signs bouncing along on the cash register wheel in my head.

"The changing rooms are in the back, by my perch."

"We don't have time for that. She'll just change here."

That smile again, directed my way, but the words were for her husband, "Please unzip me honey."

"He's here to assist." He looked at me and growled, "So do your damn job."

She looked away and found his eyes as she turned her back to me. I unhooked, unzipped, and turned her to face me. She was again smiling and looking into my eyes while I stripped her dress off. My eyes started by locking with hers, but the dress sliding down her body was an irrepressible draw, so I dropped my eyes. As the dress slid off her shoulders and lower, I saw her first reveal.

She wasn't wearing a bra. Her breasts were firm and full, at least a D cup, smooth, tanned, unblemished, and her nipples were engorged. They were the size of a ripe olive, and they looked even tastier. Her pin-up-model breasts jiggled but didn't flop from the shimmy caused by slipping the dress past her hips.

When her dress hit the floor, aside from her stilettos, all she had on was a bikini-sized pair of sheer panties. I could see that her function junction was shaved, moist, and puffy, and that the tight mesh was adhering to and indenting into her slit. Her legs were toned, slim, and long, and her spike heels highlighted the calf muscles. My eyes caressed back upwards, and when I saw her face again, she was still smiling at me.

"Hi Les, I'm Willow."

Suddenly, staying an extra hour wasn't going to be the all-bad torture I'd expected.

Willow was in her early twenties, clearly well under half of her husband's age, and she was about as physically perfect as a woman can be. She was four or five inches shorter than her husband, and I guessed 5'8", 120 pounds, 38-22-35. I have a pretty good eye based on my experience working with models who wear my designs, and I could see immediately that any of the gowns would have to be taken in at the waist. Les is mor.

Her husband handed me the first gown, the one with my label. "You're here to assist, so assist. Put it on."

Nothing but demands and orders from Mr. Hyde, but now his browbeat matched my desire. I smiled at the silver (in my safe) lining on this cloud and also at the beautiful shape forming the body of that cloud. There was still thunder from Mr. Hyde, but the cloud wasn't gray and ominous any longer. It was sleek and wispy and gorgeous.

I held the gown open so she could step into it and I shimmied it up until the shoulder straps were in place. She turned and I zipped the short zipper to the backless gown.

"What do you think honey?"

His answer was loving and gentle to his beautiful wife, "It needs to be taken in at the waist and let out up top. I can see a panty line, but otherwise it's perfect and you are gorgeous in it." He looked at me, and his tone was back to browbeat cold, "Fix it for her."

I muttered as I measured and marked for alterations, and I wasn't as gentlemanly as I should have been. Neither of them complained when I reached inside to see how much could be let out and my fingers grazed nipples. I unzipped without asking and helped her step out of it.

I was holding a second gown for her to step into when the irascible Mr. Hyde obnoxiously ordered, "What about her panty line? I told you to fix it."

"Alright."

I put the gown down and knelt in front of his wife. I looked at him as I hooked my fingers into her skimpy panties and lowered them below her pussy. They were below her ass, so no panty line. I quit looking at him and looked at something a whole lot more interesting. Her pussy was smooth and wet and I could smell it.

"There, no panty line."

"Be sure. Take them off." He was forcing me to do exactly what I wanted to do. Such a tyrant.

"Alright."

**********************

Now this was the Life of Riley on Easy Street. No worry about anything walking away. No need to be alert and watchful. Vigilance required? Zilcho. It wasn't a familiar feeling in my store.

I only sell high-end, quality enticements, so letting somebody pinch one leaves a painful red welt on my sense of justice - and another type of red on my bottom line. I don't really care to squeeze every penny of profit out of every item, which is why my margins are so low, but I do care about honesty and respect for property. I am not some huge corporate behemoth, but even if I was, I would try to stop theft. Stealing is morally wrong, and getting caught can sometimes redirect a person's conscience and sense of ethics.

My store is in North Dallas, and the upscale residences reflect the fact that their inhabitants have enough money to purchase whatever they need or want. If some of my costly enticements walk out without rewarding me with a return on my investment, I take it personally. I do everything to redirect the caught customer's understanding of the meaning of ethical behavior, and I do consider myself to be a morality cop, at least in the respect for property sense.

I watch every customer, and way too many of them try to apply the 100%-off customer discount. I'm good at catching them, and the embarrassment I subject them to means they won't try it again. That shame I lay on them is intended to be both a learning experience and chance to introspect for them. I know there is a guilty conscience inside each of them, and I try to use it. It is also intended to be a warning shot for anybody else who wants to try.

They don't leave with the enticements they hid in purses, pockets, or under clothes, but they do leave with the knowledge that I have recorded evidence of the theft, the recovery, and the public dressing down and warning against doing it again.

I don't file charges, but I have called the police a few times when the 'lady' refused to return what my camera proved she took. Dallas still has police who will try to stop all crime, not just violent crime, and they've been supportive. The word gets around about their support and about my intolerance for the full and total discount.

My clientele is mainly the rich college girls, the trophy wives and adult daughters of powerful men, or the 'dancers' from the many clubs in the area, and all of them have a nasty habit of trying to swipe part of my inventory.

The college girls often treat shoplifting as a game, and there are often collaborators abetting and distracting. Sometimes their game is pretty sophisticated, so I have to constantly refine my methods and also make sure my sales girls are not a part of the collaboration.

The second group is funded by sugar-daddy husbands and fathers. They pamper their second-round or third-round wives and their playgirl daughters, but it still amazes me that so many of these trophies think paying is beneath their legal-prostitute dignity.

Both the rich-college-girl group and the sugar-daddy-trophy group put on the 'you-have-a-lot-of-nerve' act when they get caught, and my proof and ensuing chastisement usually causes significant embarrassment. They should be embarrassed by what they did, and I make sure they are.

The 'dancers' are different in that when they buy an expensive enticement, it is from money they earned, which is often a lot. They still try to pinch, but aren't nearly as offended when the morality cop catches them and makes them fess up and pay for their treasure. After all, I figure the enticement is a worthwhile investment. When they take that enticement off for the men in the club where they 'dance', it is a return on investment that pays itself off in bills in their g-string or even multiplies itself many times over in just one night when a high roller takes them for a romp.

Les is Mor is a pretty intimidating place with all the cameras and with my girls and me watching like a hawk, and word has gotten around that I am an asshole when I catch somebody trying to steal. I am, and it's the reputation I embrace and foster. They don't end up in front of a judge, but I subject them to an even more embarrassing castigation than they would receive in a courtroom.

Once it's done, I don't revisit or embarrass them again, and I smile warmly at them whenever they return to shop.

*************************

As nature intended, an enticing aroma and a wet pussy were having expected consequences, and my arousal indicator was well on the way to insertion state. I was still on my knees when I leaned in and put my head against her sternum. I reached in back and squeezed her cheeks before I lowered her panties to her knees. I sat back on my haunches, and let them drop to the ground.

It was totally unnecessary but fully satisfying when I lifted her right stiletto out of her bunched up panties on the floor and pulled her foot forward so it was beside my hip. Her pussy was in my face, so I licked it. She moaned.

I stood and looked, and Mr. Hyde had fire in his eyes. Not that I was worried. In fact, I almost hoped he would do or say something. I smirked to egg him on. He looked down and saw I was tenting.

I looked at his totally naked wife, "You're beautiful Willow?"

"Thank you Les." She looked down at the tent and then up to my eyes, "I like looking too."

She was flirting right in front of him, so I gave it right back. I was holding the second gown open so she could step into it, "Are you ready to try on what I've got? It might not fit. It might be too big." I looked at him as I held the gown open, but he knew exactly what I was talking about. I goaded him, "I can see that you're ready to try it." I could also smell her readiness, and the readiness taste still lingered on my tongue.

She smiled, "I am."

The clock said 6:29 when she stepped into her second gown. He gave the ok, and it was ungentlemanly marked too, as was the third in short order. $5400 down, $4600 to go. In eighteen minutes.

"Panties. Bras"

It was all he said, and underthings weren't going to make much of a dent in the balance, but I didn't care. If he didn't find another $4600 worth of enticements in the rest of his hour, the balance was a donation bonus in my mind. A tip for taking his crap.

I led him and his naked wife to the unmentionables and stared at him, "If she tries it on, she has to buy it."

He snarled, "Make sure it fits then."

Who was this guy? Make sure it fits? We could see if panties fit as soon as she had them on, but he was opening the door so I was going in.