Synesthesia

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“It’s brief for Synesthesia”, she says, and pauses, looking up at me. I can tell she’s just itching to give the definition, so I have fun along and ask. She says it means the blurring of the senses. She’s thinking smelling colors and sensing sounds. I have a different combo of sensations planned. The stiff verge of the wooden pony presses badly into her puss as she fights and her genitals grizzlies the whole weight of her body. She attempts to hold out, but the flog biting her boobies and stomach brings tears welling up nearly immediately. Shortly after, she’s spread up on her toes from floor to ceiling and packaged so cock-squeezing that the stress compels her blood into the revealed flesh, making the flesh in those areas tight and sensitive. Little clothespins with serrated teeth to nibble into and hold their take hold of as weight after weight is added. A vibrator wedged inbetween her gams performs its function and a crude combo of anguish and sensation commences to have fun out in her body. She squashes her thighs together and squirms. A teardrop shifts down her cheek. She doesn’t know whether to come or cry. It’s not textbook synesthesia, perhaps, but it’s good enough for me.