Synesthesia

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I ask her about her name. “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 stinky colors and feeling sounds. I have a different mixture of sensations planned. The hard brim of the wooden pony presses badly into her cooch as she struggles and her groin bears the entire weight of her body. She attempts to hold out, but the cane stinging her hooters and belly brings tears welling up nearly immediately. Briefly after, she’s stretched up on her toes from floor to ceiling and packaged so cock-squeezing that the tension coerces her blood into the unveiled flesh, making the flesh in those areas cock-squeezing and sensitive. Little forceps with serrated teeth to nibble into and hold their grasp as weight after weight is added. A massager slammed inbetween her gams performs its function and a crude mixture of ache and delight embarks to have fun out in her body. She wrings her hips together and squirms. A teardrop flips down her cheek. She doesn’t know whether to come or cry. It’s not textbook synesthesia, perhaps, but it’s great enough for me.