I'm Carlotta "Carly" Tibbs, proprietor of the Yosemite Sam Shooting Range and Sex Toy Emporium. It's one-stop shopping in balmy Bullhead City, Arizona for all gun-toting preverts in the great southwest. I was behind the counter marking down our selection of anal beads made of Saguaro cactus (worst marketing idea since New Coke) when she walked in from the oppressive heat, sweating like Kevin Spacey at an all-boys summer camp. She being Candy DeApple, a friend from long ago. She had packed on a few dozen pounds since school. Either that or she was smuggling a family of illegal aliens beneath her gargantuan pea-green top/tent. Her olive green stretch pants had no choice but to stretch outlandishly.

She recognized me immediately and ran wheezing into my waiting arms, squealing with joy. We always had chemistry and history together. But those were the only classes we shared at Steven Spielberg High, home of the Fighting Cinematographers. Her claim to fame was allegedly having such a spacious vagina, it was referred to as the Grandest Canyon. Someone once said she offered weekend burro trips through it, but that was a vicious rumor. It was actually a Shetland pony.The last I heard, she graduated somehow and went to Arizona State U., a school with the largest number of underage alcoholics in the northern hemisphere. 

It was 10 AM and my Red Devil Pizza thermometer was already registering 116. It is said this weather is Satan's revenge for AZ native Alice Cooper being born again. My theory is it's God's revenge for Wayne Newton having lived here. But it does explain our state moto,  "Arizona... we wear flip flops year-round. Can you?" It's also home to the most venomous snakes, spiders and reptiles  west of Baltimore. Not to mention the horrifyingly painful jumping cactus.Turning to my former classmate, "What have you been up to, Candy?"

"Well, I was a temp in Tempe. Then I made flags in Flagstaff,  but I'd prefer not to talk about my year in Bumfuck, Egypt. It's literally too painful. Do you mind if I browse your... classy establishment?"

"Please be my guest." I flashed my best the-customer-is-always-right smile and followed closely in case she has sticky fingers from other than masturbating. She did display excellent taste, however. Her first point of interest was a dildo shaped like a Gila monster with a vibrating forked tongue for maximum clit stimulation. It was made locally by the Hopi tribe shaman ...or was it a Sha Na Na? Whichever wasn't at Woodstock. (Happy 50th Anniversary btw.) She seemed troubled, looking over her shoulder nervously as if Joe Biden would soon ambush her, seeking a campaign contribution. She looked at me with sad, pleading eyes and whispered...

"Carly,  actually I stopped here with ulterior motives. I saw the sign and well, since reading that masterpiece "50 Shades" I've been very curious about exploring the world of B&D... S&M...."

"M&M" I interjected, offering the last of my delicious chocolate candy  to Candy, ironically .Then easing her anxiety, "You came to the right place, Candy. I can help."

"Are you an expert on bondage," she asked excitedly?

"Am I? I've seen every Bond movie, even the one with George freaking Lazenby."

"No, dumbass!  You know where you're tied down, kicking and screaming."

"Sounds like me at any Duane Johnson movie," I replied honestly. "But truthfully, Candy, I do have experience in a dominate role. It's how I supplement my income, which is much more respectable than selling Tupperware."...again, honestly.  "You could even say I have more subs than Subway. And like Subway, many leave with toasted buns."

"You're making me wet," she said drippingly.

"I noticed, but I'll break out the Swiffer and clean your mess up in no time." Stepping out of a  spreading puddle she asked when we could begin. "Immediately, if you wish." 

She jumped with glee, her ample bosoms slapping both of her chins like a heavyweight boxer landing vicious jabs to his hapless opponent. Her knees buckled but she stayed upright to her credit. I then led her to my office/dungeon. It was discreet now since I soundproofed it to avoid hearing the Stones rehearse after they retired here last year. These days, wild horses can't drag Mick away from his stool softener. And how the fuck is Keith Richards still alive? Heroin must have awesome restorative powers.

Once the door and portcullis were closed, I told her to disrobe so we could commence her fantasy. As she stripped I began surveying the various implements which should enhance her submission: butt plugs, strap ons, ball gags, dildo, feeldoe, Play Dough and Avon makeup. From the corner of my eye, I noticed the red light blinking on our security camera so I knew my employees were gathered around the screen, watching while jerking off. Keeping those rubes in hand lotion and tissue was seriously eating into my profits.

I didn't mind them watching due to my exhibitionist fetish. Plus it was good for morale and cheaper than providing health insurance.Turning to watch her, I noticed her black panties had "if you lick it it will cum." stenciled boldly across her burgeoning ass. Somewhere Kevin Costner is rolling over in his grave... career grave that is. "You may start by kissing and worshipping my feet,  kitten," I began.
 
"YOU may start by kissing my big, white ass," she replied in very un-sub like fashion.

Sensing her growing trepidation I decided small talk was called for.  "Where do you live now, Candy?"

"Why," she replied curtly.

"Because it was a polite question. Now seriuosly, are you back in Arizona?"

With a hint of irritation, she scowled and, "Yes. Why?

"God damn it! Are you going to tell me or do I have to beat it out of you?" (In retrospect, under these circumstances that really wasn't an effective threat.)

She glared and stood her stubborn ground. "Why" was all the bitch would repeat over and over like an owl with a learning disability.

I'm not one to triffle with, especially in this heat so I screamed yet again, "Okay, you fucking lunatic, I'll ask one final time ....where do you live?"

She snarled like Jean-Paul Belmondo in "Breathless" before, "I keep telling you. ..I live in Why...Arizona.  It's a real place. Look it up, Rand McNutty!"

"Oh," was my witty retort.That lengthy, circuitous discussion did remind me, for some reason, to cancel my afternoon appointments with Mr. Abbott and Mr. Costello. But now finally it was time to get down to bidness as the kids say. I slowly walked around her naked body, adding 127 steps to my Fitbit total for the day.Then slipping a blindfold over her baby blues I took my next step. Instead of boring nipple clamps, I fastened a very tempestuous scorpion by its pincher to Candy's rigid nipple and within seconds it had buried its venom-packed stinger deep in her sagging boob. Her reaction was equally swift. Her milk-curdling screams of agony sounded like me walking into Dennys.

I'm not certain I helped matters by asking, "Does it hurt?" 

Grasping my arm tightly, like a xenomorph grabbing Ripley, she screamed, "Fuck yes it hurts, Ms. Obvious! Worse than binge-watching Full House." Even I broke into tears hearing that gruesome comparison.

"It's alright," she reassured me. "Let's move on. That just made me need the pleaure/pain even more." She was a tough one, but I was equally set on breaking her spirit. Fastening her wrists to the shackles mounted to the wall, turning her to face my beloved Clint Howard poster hanging there, I raked my nails down her back, leaving thin, red marks on her pasty skin, all the way from her dog collar to the crack of her ass. Stepping back to admire my Jackson Pollack-esque handiwork, I prepared for Step Two, the flogging. But there would be no clichéd leather whip... no, the force was strong with this one so drastic action was required.

Picking up a diamondback rattlesnake carefully by its rattle, I began to lash it in crisscrosses over her back and ass, doing it so fast the serpent didn't have time to sink its terrorizing fangs into her reddening flesh. Also, I don't believe any snake could unhinge its jaw enough to bite THAT ass. Her screams of delight proved I was on the right track although my rattlesnake whip (with apologies to Bo Diddly and George Thorogood) seemed less enthusiastic as tiny, yellow stars now circled its head like Wile Coyote after being flattened by an anvil. With its googly eyes rolling crazily in their sockets, my lethal pet looked downright adorable.The enclosed room was by now smelling like wet pussy, which coincidentally is my favorite Lysol Air Freshener scent.

"Beat me like the worthless cunt I am....please!" Wow!  How did she get Quentin Tarantino to write her dialogue? Through clenched teeth, she whimpered, "How do your other subs address you?"

Leaning  and growling into her ear, "THEY CALL ME MISTRESS TIBBS!!!" With my needy friend so exposed and vulnerable, I bit hard on her shoulder,  the coppery taste of her blood filling my mouth and yanking me back to reality. I was becoming Patrick Bateman when I wanted to be Justine Bateman. Regaining composure and releasing her from her chains, I apologized profusely, tears of regret flowing down my flushed cheeks. Instead of hating me for my behavior, Candy kissed me tenderly and thanked me for fulfilling her fantasy.

She whispered, "That was exactly what I needed so don't beat yourself up over it, although you might like that." She still had a few minutes left in our session so I attached my fully recovered rattler to her collar and instructed her to crawl behind me. I was hoping she was house trained because this room has terrible ventilation.

Looking down into her puppy dog eyes, I spoke kindly. "Are you my bitch now, Candy?" Instead of answering, however, she bit me savagely on the leg, making me hope her shots were up to date. Greatly perturbed by her ungrateful behavior, I rolled up a Phoenix Gazette and began whacking her rapidly across the nose, accenting each wallop with "bad girl!" Apparently, this worked since she whimpered and curled into a ball at my feet.The sight of her sniffing her anus was repulsive but did remind me to swing by Taco Bell on the way home. Suddenly crawling to her knees, arms behind her, the poster girl for submission,  she said she had one more request. I nodded knowingly and urinated over her bountiful chest.

Looking up angrily, "What the fuck? That wasn't my request, you crazy bitch! I just wanted to know if you validate parking?"

Oh. My bad. "Shall I schedule you an appointment for next week, Candy?"

"No, I fear not. I mean, it was fun but I'm gonna try a less painful fetish, I think its called LePewaphilia."

"What the fuck is that," I enquired?

"It's when one is only sexualty aroused by someone speaking French." (Wasn't that foreplay between Gomez and Morticia Addams?)

Looking deeply into her eyes I continued the seduction."Je vois, mon amie. Vas-tu me lecher la chatte?" (I see, my friend. Will you lick my pussy?)  (Subtitles make me feel so Francois Truffaut-like)

"Huh?" Candy said succinctly,  her hand nestled deeply in her panties.

"Never mind. It gets lost in translation, " I concluded. "But enjoy  'la petite mort, cheri."...and I'm positive she did. (You all should know this one "tiny death" aka "orgasm")

 Finally, I would like to thank the lovely, kind AAnna for her very useful background info on Arizona.Thanking the rest in advance for skipping to the end.The rest is mere filler anyway, cher lectuer.

 (Dear reader)