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 stinking colors and feeling sounds. I have a different concoction of sensations planned. The hard brim of the wooden pony presses badly into her cunny as she fights and her pubes hunks the whole weight of her body. She attempts to hold out, but the flog stinging her milk cans and abdomen 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 unveiled flesh, making the flesh in those areas cock-squeezing and sensitive. Little clamps with serrated teeth to nibble into and hold their grip as weight after weight is added. A vibro inserted inbetween her gams performs its function and a crude concoction of agony and sheer pleasure embarks to have fun out in her body. She squeezes her thighs 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 fine enough for me.